I 


Graduate  Root" 

TR 

1245" 
TS3 


THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 

OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


GIFT  OF 
FREDERIC  THOMAS  BLANCHARD 


Oxford  English  Series 
By  American  Scholars 

General  Editor :   GEORGE  PHILIP  KRAPP,  Professor  of  English  in 
Columbia  University. 

Hazlitt  on  English  Literature:  An  Introduction  to  the  Appre- 
ciation of  Literature.     By  J.  ZEITLIN.     Crown  8vo.     $1.25. 

College  English:  A  Manual  for  the  Study  of  English  Literature  and 
Composition.     By  FRANK  AYDELOTTE.     Crown  8vo.    6oc. 

Materials   for  the   Study  of   English    Literature    and 

Composition:  Selections  from  Newman,   Arnold,    Huxley,   Rus- 
kin,  and  Carlyle.     Edited  by  FRANK  AYDELOTTE.     Crown  8vo. 

A    History   of   American    Literature:  By  w.  B.  CAIRNS. 

Crown  8vo.     $1.25. 


Kepresentative  English  Dramas 


from 


Dryden  to  Sheridan 


FREDERICK  TUPPER,   PH.D. 

Professor  of  English  in  the  University  of  Vermont 

AND 

JAMES   W.   TUPPER,  PH.D. 

Professor  of  English  Literature  in  Lafayette  College 


NEW  YORK 

OXFORD  UNIVERSITY  PRESS 

AMERICAN  BRANCH  :  35  WEST  32ND  STREET 

LONDON,  TORONTO,  MELBOURNE,  AND  BOMBAY 

HUMPHREY  MILFORD 

1914 

ALL  RIGHTS  RESERVED 


Copyright ',  7974 

BY  OXFORD  UNIVERSITY  PRESS 

AMERICAN  BRANCH 


College 
Library 


T83 


PREFACE 

THIS  book  is  designed  for  students  rather  than  for  scholars  or  specialists. 
It  makes  little  or  no  contribution  to  the  present  knowledge  of  authors  and 
their  plays.  It  grapples  with  no  difficult  problems  of  origins  and  solves  no 
riddles  of  dramatic  evolution.  It  enters  into  no  competition  with  histories 
of  the  English  drama.  Its  mission  is  the  humble  one  of  presenting  in  a  single 
volume  representative  plays  of  the  century  and  more  between  the  Restoration 
of  the  Stuarts  and  the  American  Revolution.  The  introductions  to  the  dozen 
dramas  and  the  notes  and  bibliographies  at  the  end  of  the  book  contain  only 
such  information  as  the  editors  deem  necessary  for  an  understanding  of 
the  circumstances  of  this  literary  output,  only  such  interpretative  comment 
as  they  consider  stimulating  to  the  reader's  own  critical  sense.  With  regard 
to  the  necessity  and  stimulus  of  this  editorial  matter,  others  may  well  be 
of  a  different  mind. 

After  all,  the  plays  are  the  thing.  Admittedly  it  is  very  convenient  to 
have  in  one  volume  a  dozen  plays  of  an  important  epoch.  But  why  the 
dozen  here  selected?  The  editors  have  been  guided  in  their  choice  not  by 
their  own  likes  and  dislikes,  which  happen  to  be  strong,  but  by  the  consensus 
of  critical  and  popular  opinion.  The  Conquest  of  Granada  is  acknowledged 
by  all  as  typical  of  the  short-lived  heroic  drama.  All  for  Love  is  deemed 
Dryden's  best  tragedy  and  furnishes  in  addition  the  most  striking  example 
of  the  Restoration  treatment  of  a  Shakespearean  theme.  Otway's  Venice  Pre- 
served is  reckoned  easily  first  among  the  tragedies  of  the  later  Stuart  time; 
indeed  it  finds  no  peer  until  Shelley's  Cenci.  For  the  editors'  sins  of 
omission — Wycherley  and  Vanbrugh — is  pleaded  only  the  enforced  omission 
of  sins.  The  ubiquitous  Rehearsal  of  Buckingham  has  yielded — here  the 
editors  accept  full  responsibility — to  the  less  accessible,  equally  repre- 
sentative, and  more  amusing  burlesque,  Fielding's  Tom  Thumb.  No  English 
comedy  of  manners  vies,  in  the  judgment  of  many  others  than  Meredith, 
with  The  Way  of  the  World  by  Congreve.  No  lighter  drama  of  the  Restora- 
tion tradition  has  had  longer  life  on  the  stage  and  off  than  that  "  red  leaf, 
the  last  of  its  clan,"  Farquhar's  often-dancing  Beaux'  Stratagem.  Dull  beyond 
all  conception  Addison's  Cato  may  seem  to  us  now,  yet  it  scored  the  most 
signal  triumph  of  eighteenth-century  classical  tragedy.  Sentimental  comedy 
must  be  represented,  and — almost  as  a  matter  of  course — by  The  Conscious 
Lovers  of  Steele.  The  Beggar's  Opera  by  Gay  is  the  foremost  of  its  musical 
genre  in  both  time  and  merit.  Goldsmith's  She  Stoops  to  Conquer  and 
Sheridan's  chief  comedies,  The  Rivals  and  The  School  for  Scandal,  were 


672473 


PREFACE 


sure  of  their  place.     Indeed,  the  selection  of  all  these  twelve  plays  was  so 
obvious  as  to  demand  little  discrimination. 

The  text  of  each  play  has  been  derived  from  a  careful  comparison  of 
the  earliest  quartos  with  the  latest  and  most  scholarly  editions ;  but  the  presen't 
editors  have  unhesitatingly  omitted  the  so-called  "  critical  apparatus "  of 
variant  readings  and  proposed  emendations,  for  the  same  reason  that  they 
have  shunned  archaic  spelling  and  pointing — as  being  entirely  out  of  keeping 
with  the  design  of  the  book. 


PAGE 


CONTENTS 

INTRODUCTIONS  AND  PLAYS  : 

THE  CONQUEST  OF  GRANADA   .                 .    - 3 

ALL  FOR  LOVE -39 

VENICE  PRESERVED 77 

THE  WAY  OF  THE  WORLD 117 

THE  BEAUX'  STRATAGEM  .        .        .        .        .        .        .         .        .156 

CATO 195 

THE  CONSCIOUS  LOVERS 226 

THE  BEGGAR'S  OPERA 261 

TOM  THUMB  THE  GREAT 291 

SHE  STOOPS  TO  CONQUER 318 

THE  RIVALS 353 

THE  SCHOOL  FOR  SCANDAL        ........  397 

NOTES .  435 

BIBLIOGRAPHY                                    459 


REPRESENTATIVE  ENGLISH  DRAMAS 
FROM  DRYDEN  TO  SHERIDAN 


JOHN  DRYDEN 


THE  CONQUEST  OF  GRANADA 


JOHN  DRYDEN  was  born  of  good,  vigorous  Puritan  stock  on  August  g,  1631, 
at  Aldwinkle  in  Northamptonshire.  The  rigorous  drill  of  Busby,  and  much 
reading  in  the  Latin  and  Greek  poets  at  Trinity  College,  Cambridge,  made 
up  his  academic  education  till  1654,  when  he  received  his  bachelor's  degree. 
His  poetic  genius  was  slow  in  developing,  as  the  notorious  verses  on  the 
death  of  Lord  Hastings  abundantly  testify,  and  it  was  not  till  the  death  of 
Cromwell  in  1658  that  he  did  anything  with  much  promise  of  eminence  in 
verse.  This  production  was  the  Heroic  Stanzas,  followed  two  years  later  by 
Astrea  Redux,  which  welcomed  the  restored  Charles.  Dryden,  as  Professor 
Root  points  out,  is  not  to  be  charged  with  mere  time-serving,  since  he  but 
joined  in  the  universal  welcome  to  a  king  who  seemed  to  assure  stability  of 
government  when  a  collapse  was  threatened  by  the  weak  rule  of  Richard 
Cromwell.  Dryden  was  throughout  in  strong  sympathy  with  autocracy. 

In  1663  began  his  active  connection  with  the  stage  that  lasted  more  or  less 
constantly  for  thirty-one  years  and  that  witnessed  the  composition  of  twenty- 
eight  plays.  He  wrote  comedies  that  pandered  all  too  successfully  to  the 
corrupt  taste  of  the  Restoration  Court,  such  as  The  Wild  Gallant  and  The 
Rival  Ladies  (1663),  Marriage  a  la  Mode  (1672),  and  The  Spanish  Friar 
(1681)  ;  heroic  plays,  which  are  the  most  striking  examples  of  the  peculiar 
product  of  this  age,  such  as  Tyrannic  Love  (1669),  The  Conquest  of  Granada 
(1670-2),  and  Aurengzebe  (1675);  adaptations  of  foreign  plays,  such  as  Sir 
Martin  Mar-all  (1667)  from  Moliere,  and  of  native  plays,  such  as  The  Tem- 
pest with  D'Avenant  (1667),  All  for  Love  (1677-8),  and  Troilus  and  Cressida 
(1679)  from  Shakspere;  a  "tagging"  of  Milton's  Paradise  Lost  in  The 
State  of  Innocence  (1674);  a  dignified  tragedy  in  Don  Sebastian  (1690); 
and  a  bitter  invective  with  the  purely  political  purpose  of  stirring  up  English 
wrath  against  the  Dutch  in  Amboyna  (1673).  After  writing  his  earlier  plays 
in  the  heroic  couplet  he  discarded  in  All  for  Love  his  "  long-loved  mistress 
Rhyme"  for  blank  verse.  It  was  a  long  and  arduous  service  for  a  man 
not  particularly  gifted  as  a  dramatist,  but  it  gave  him  a  mastery  of  verse 
and  of  terse  expression,  as  one  can  see  by  comparing  his  early  work  in 
Annus  Mirabilis  (.1667)  with  the  splendid  satires  of  the  '8o's. 

In  1670  Dryden  attained  the  height  of  his  popularity  when  he  was  appointed 
historiographer  royal  and  poet  laureate,  and  he  expresses  his  supreme  self- 

3 


THE  CONQUEST  OF  GRANADA 


satisfaction  in  the  Epilogue  to  the  Second  Part  of  The  Conquest  of  Granada. 
Punishment  quickly  followed  in  the  Duke  of  Buckingham's  Rehearsal  (1671), 
in  which  he  is  mercilessly  caricatured  as  the  silly,  conceited,  and  immoral 
"  Mr.  Bayes  "  and  his  heroic  plays  are  made  the  butt  of  enduring  wit.  His 
political  affiliations  led  to  his  entering  the  controversy  with  Shaftesbury  and 
the  Whigs  and  to  his  writing  the  most  brilliant  poetry  of  his  career,  Absalom 
and  Achitophel  (1681),  The  Medal  and  Mac  Flecknoe  (1682),  the  last  being 
directed  particularly  against  the  unfortunate  poet  Shadwell  for  his  share  in 
the  controversy.  Dryden's  interest  in  the  cause  of  law  and  order,  which 
seemed  then  most  assured  by  the  Anglican  Church,  occasioned  Religio  Laid 
(1682),  in  which  he  conceived  of  the  Church  as  a  "via  media  between  the 
foreign  tyranny  of  Papistry  on  the  one  hand,  and  the  seditious  anarchy  of 
the  Fanatics  on  the  other"  (Root).  When  James  II  ascended  the  throne, 
Dryden  embraced  the  Roman  Catholic  faith  and  championed  it  in  The  Hind 
and  the  Panther  (1687).  The  Church  was  to  him  a  political  institution  and 
he  now  saw  in  it  the  most  effective  agency  for  enforcing  obedience  to  govern- 
ment. His  purely  religious  convictions  were  wholly  negligible. 

Dryden's  prose  work  consists  chiefly  of  essays  in  the  form  of  prefaces 
to  his  plays  and  poems,  and  it  covers  the  entire  period  of  his  authorship. 
Pre-eminent  are  the  Essay  of  Dramatic  Poesy  (1668),  An  Essay  of  Heroic 
Plays  (1672),  and  A  Discourse  Concerning  the  Original  and  Progress  of 
Satire  (1693).  Not  without  justice  has  he  been  called  the  first  writer  of 
modern  prose. 

With  the  Revolution  in  1688  Dryden  lost  all  his  offices  so  that  he  had  to 
depend  upon  authorship  for  his  living.  He  translated  Juvenal  and  Persius 
(1693)  and  Vergil  (1697)  ;  he  composed  Alexander's  Feast  (1697)  and  wrote 
his  Fables  (1700).  He  died  on  May  i,  1700,  and  was  buried  in  Westminster 
Abbey. 

"  The  two  parts  of  The  Conquest  of  Granada  are  written  with  a  seeming 
determination  to  glut  the  public  with  dramatick  wonders ;  to  exhibit  in  its 
highest  elevation  a  theatrical  meteor  of  incredible  love  and  impossible  valor, 
and  to  leave  no  room  for  a  wilder  flight  to  the  extravagance  of  posterity. 
All  the  rays  of  romantick  heat,  whether  amorous  or  warlike,  glow  in  Alman- 
zor  by  a  kind  of  concentration.  He  is  above  all  laws;  he  is  exempt  from 
all  restraints ;  he  ranges  the  world  at  will,  and  governs  wherever  he  appears. 
He  fights  without  enquiring  the  cause,  and  loves  in  spite  of  the  obligations 
of  justice,  of  rejection  by  his  mistress,  and  of  prohibition  from  the  dead. 
Yet  the  scenes  are,  for  the  most  part,  delightful ;  they  exhibit  a  kind  of 
illustrious  depravity,  and  majestick  madness:  such  as,  if  it  is  sometimes 
despised,  is  often  reverenced,  and  in  which  the  ridiculous  is  mingled  with  the 
astonishing." 

Dr.  Johnson's  judgment  of  The  Conquest  of  Granada  (1672),  thus  de- 
livered about  a  hundred  years  after  the  production  of  the  play,  does  not 
differ  essentially  from  that  of  the  present.  The  heroic  play  was  at  best  a 

4 


THE  CONQUEST  OF  GRANADA 


short-lived  species  of  drama,  and  the  contemporary  Rehearsal  had  already 
in  burlesque  pretty  well  taken  its  measure.  The  wonder  to  us  at  first  glance 
is  that  such  a  fantasia  of  extravagant  emotions  should  ever  have  been  ap- 
plauded by  admiring  audiences  and  been  written  by  such  a  genius  as  Dryden. 
The  explanation  is  to  be  found  partly  in  social  conditions.  The  patrons  of 
the  Restoration  theatre  were  the  dwellers  in  the  Court  and  its  purlieus. 
Charles  had  come  into  his  own  and  proceeded  to  enjoy  it.  After  twenty 
years  of  Puritan  rule  England  by  royal  example  was  to  be  merry  once  more. 
Naturally,  there  was  a  mighty  swing  of  the  pendulum  from  the  repression  of 
all  worldly  pleasures,  as  shown  in  the  closing  of  the  theatres  in  1642,  to  the 
uncontrolled  license  that  marked  their  opening  in  1660.  The  actresses  were 
for  the  first  time  regularly  established  on  the  English  stage,  and  a  vivacious 
beauty  was  sure  of  preferment  as  a  royal  or  at  least  a  noble  mistress.  The 
dialogue  of  comedy  and  the  prologue  and  epilogue  of  tragedy  and  heroic 
play  carried  suggestiveness  to  a  limit  unparalleled  in  our  stage  history.  Yet 
in  so  doing  they  did  not  surpass  the  actual  conduct  of  the  patrons  of  the 
theatres. 

Now,  as  if  to  form  a  proper  artistic  contrast,  the  heroic  drama  repre- 
sented usually,  in  the  roles  of  Nell  Gwyn  and  her  like,  persons  of  extraor- 
dinary virtue  successfully  undergoing  temptations  that  would  corrupt  an 
anchorite.  It  exalted  pure  love  and  marital  fidelity  to  a  degree  unattempted 
yet  in  prose  or  rime.  Sensual  love  is 

a  monster  of  so  frightful  mien 
As,  to  be  hated,  needs  but  to  be  seen. 

Lyndaraxa  is  as  abhorrent  an  instance  of  selfish  infidelity  as  Almahide  is  a 
glorious  example  of  unselfish  devotion  to  duty.  Death  is  as  nothing  when 
it  comes  between  the  pure  love  of  Ozmyn  and  Benzayda.  Hard-hearted 
parents  relent  before  the  pleadings  of  innocent  affection.  Such  exalted  virtue 
formed  no  part  of  the  daily  life  or  experience  of  those  who  applauded  it 
on  the  stage.  It  has,  moreover,  a  falsetto  note  which  betrays  it ;  the  lovers 
protest  too  much ;  devotion  unto  death  is  largely  a  matter  of  words.  It 
was  part  of  the  insincerity  of  the  age  that  demanded  that  the  protestations 
of  virtuous  love  should  be  loud  if  not  deep.  An  audience  that  laughs  at 
immorality  is  the  readiest  to  applaud  virtue  provided  it  is  sufficiently 
declamatory. 

There  was  a  similar  extravagance  in  sentiment.  England  put  on  gay 
colors  on  the  death  of  Oliver.  Gallantry,  the  fine  flower  of  courtly  life, 
attains  a  rank  growth  while  homely  love  withers.  The  sprightly  cavalier 
flourished  on  and  off  the  boards,  and  he  held  amorous  discourse  and  corre- 
spondence with  some  matchless  Orinda.  But  there  was  no  real  chivalry 
back  of  the  dainty  speeches ;  it  was  merely  a  pretty  game  to  play  out  of  a 
book  in  which  the  participants  strove  to  outdo  each  other  in  clever  repartee. 

5 


THE  CONQUEST  OF  GRANADA 


Honor  is  in  everyone's  mouth  but  it  thrives  only  on  the  stage,  and  there 
only  in  the  breast  of  the  artificially  virtuous  heroine.  Even  Almanzor,  the 
beau  ideal  of  the  heroic,  naively  asks,  when  in  a  more  than  questionable 
situation  his  honor  is  appealed  to,  "What  is  honor  but  a  love  well  hid?" 
Valor  is  matched  only  by  love  in  its  extravagance.  Almanzor,  when  not 
checked  by  the  exigencies  of  Dryden's  plot,  is  literally  as  terrible  as  an 
army  with  banners.  And  as  if  to  abate  any  astonishment  which  we  might 
feel  in  the  presence  of  such  a  hero,  Dryden  in  his  dedication  of  this  play  to 
the  Duke  of  York  makes  clear  who  his  living  models  were.  He  says : — 

"  I  have  always  observed  in  your  Royal  Highness  an  extreme  concern- 
ment for  the  honor  of  your  country;  'tis  a  passion  common  to  you  with  a 
brother,  the  most  excellent  of  kings ;  and  in  your  two  persons  are  eminent 
the  characters  which  Homer  has  given  us  of  heroic  virtue :  the  commanding 
part  in  Agamemnon,  and  the  executive  in  Achilles." 

It  was  a  splendidly  mendacious  tribute  to  Charles  and  the  Duke ! 

But  this  drama  was  not  merely  the  offspring  of  the  time.  It  had  its 
origins  in  the  romantic  plays  of  Beaumont  and  Fletcher,  and  its  later  devel- 
opment was  affected  by  the  extravagant  French  romances  which  were  trans- 
lated into  English  and  imitated.  D'Avenant,  especially  in  his  Love  and 
Honour  and  The  Siege  of  Rhodes,  is  the  link  connecting  the  romantic  and 
the  heroic  plays.  The  hero  has  greatly  advanced  beyond  his  romantic  pro- 
totype and  the  heroine  has  attained  far  more  independence  of  character. 
The  rival  has  become  more  important,  since  he  must  advance  with  the  hero 
whose  foil  he  is.  The  influence  of  the  French  romances  is  chiefly  shown 
in  the  heightened  intensity  of  the  characterization  and  in  certain  stock  situ- 
ations. In  fact,  as  Hill  remarks,  one  in  "  passing  directly  from  the  romances 
to  some  of  Dryden's  plays  .  .  .  experiences  little  sense  of  change :  the  types 
of  characters  are  the  same,  the  characters  are  related  in  the  same  way,  under 
similar  circumstances  they  do  the  same  things."  So  Artaban,  "  like  Alman- 
zor, inspires  fear  by  his  terrible  eyes;  he  controls  armies  with  a  glance,  puts 
terror  into  the  hearts  of  his  foes,  paralyzing  them  by  his  mere  presence. 
The  first  sight  the  heroine  has  of  him  impresses  her — as  Almahide  at  her 
first  meeting  with  Almanzor — with  '  a  natural  fierceness '  and  with  '  the 
sparkling  vivacity  of  his  eyes.'  "  1 

"  An  heroic  play,"  says  Dryden  in  his  Essay  of  Heroic  Plays,  "  ought 
to  be  an  imitation,  in  little,  of  an  heroic  poem ;  and,  consequently,  .  .  .  love 
and  valor  ought  to  be  the  subject  of  it."  As  in  the  poem,  the  action  is 
built  around  two  heroic  characters,  one  a  hero  unsurpassed  in  valor,  the 
other  his  beloved,  as  constant  in  virtue  as  she  is  in  love,  and  it  is  carried 
out  in  a  court  harassed  by  domestic  treason,  rebellion,  and  foreign  attack. 
The  action  proceeds  from  one  great  scene  to  another,  so  that  there  is  no 
lack  of  excitement  in  the  entire  course  of  the  five  acts.  The  object  of  the 
play  is  not,  as  in  the  Shaksperean  tragedy,  to  work  out  the  fate  of  a  mighty 

1  La  Calprenede's  Romances,  pp.  58  and  78. 

6 


THE  CONQUEST  OF  GRANADA 


soul  in  conflict  with  great  moral  forces,  but  to  depict  the  fortunes  of  a 
superhuman  hero,  who  by  his  amazing  valor  or  the  very  awe  of  his  name 
puts  down  rebellions  and  overthrows  kingdoms  in  order  that  he  may  win 
his  love  and  that  as  a  consequence  virtue  may  triumph  over  the  forces  of 
evil,  his  enemies.  The  motives  of  action  are  often  violent  in  keeping  with 
the  violent  deeds  which  they  occasion ;  they  are  unexpected,  sometimes  arbi- 
trary, but  never  commonplace.  They  spring  from  the  complication  of  love 
affairs  with  those  of  state,  and  in  their  variety  and  startling  character  they 
never  allow  the  action  to  drag.  The  scene  of  the  play  is  usually  laid  in 
some  strange  court,  as  in  Jerusalem  or  Africa  or  Spanish  America,  and 
thus  it  had  for  the  untravelled  Englishman  all  the  charm  of  a  journey  into 
the  realm  of  the  imagination.  Finally,  there  was  a  certain  pleasure  in  the 
very  verse,  the  heroic  couplet,  which  was  admirably  adapted  to  express  the 
exalted  sentiments  of  the  heroic  character. 

It  is  in  the  exceeding  turmoil  of  events  that  the  interest  of  The  Conquest 
of  Granada  chiefly  lies.  Through  the  ten  acts  of  its  two  parts  three  love 
plots  of  divergent  claims  to  attention,  laid  in  a  city  which  is  besieged  by  a 
foreign  foe  and  distracted  by  warring  factions  within  its  walls,  keep  one  as 
busy  as  a  spectator  at  a  three-ring  circus.  Standing  out  pre-eminently  is  the 
love  of  Almanzor  and  Almahide.  The  mighty  hero  holds  in  his  hands  the 
fortunes  of  the  city  and  the  fates  of  the  Spaniard  and  the  rival  factions. 
His  love  is  the  quintessence  of  the  heroic ;  so  far  is  it  above  Zulema's  that 
this  rival  shall  "not  dare  to  be  so  impudent  as  to  despair."  In  contrast  to 
such  love  is  that  of  the  infatuated  Abdelmelech  and  Abdalla  for  the  design- 
ing Lyndaraxa,  who  plays  one  lover  against  another  for  a  crown.  Then 
as  striking  a  more  normal  balance  there  is  the  pure  romance  of  Ozmyn  and 
Benzayda.  In  addition  to  the  complexities  of  love  there  is  excitement  caused 
by  the  recurrently  attacking  Spaniards  and  the  intermittently  revolting 
Zegrys.  It  may  indeed  impress  one  that  the  revolts  and  the  siege  are  timed 
to  suit  the  exigencies  of  the  love  plots ;  when  one  of  the  heroes  has  to  ad- 
vance his  love  affair,  he  goes  or  is  taken  over  to  the  Spaniards  and  thereby 
sets  both  love  and  war  in  motion.  When  love  is  not  in  need  of  external 
excitation,  zambras  may  be  danced,  songs  may  be  sung,  and  tournaments  and 
bull  fights  conducted  in  ceremonious  state  without  fear  of  disturbing  foes. 
Then  when  in  Part  II  mortal  agencies  fail  to  keep  the  stage  astir,  the  ghost 
of  Almanzor's  mother  dares  to  reprove  her  erring  son.  Very  unfilially  he 
threatens  to 

Squeeze  thee,  like  a  bladder,  there 
And  make  thee  groan  thyself  away  to  air. 

[The  ghost  retires. 

In  addition  to  these  more  important  events  we  have  songs  and  dances,  duels, 
a  murder,  a  suicide,  an  attempted  assault  on — of  all  persons — Almahide,  and 
a  trial  by  combat.  No  one  need  complain  that  the  drama  lacks  action! 

7 


THE  CONQUEST  OF  GRANADA 


In  the  motivation  of  his  events  Dryden  rarely  fails  of  startling  effects. 
His  interweaving  of  love  affairs  with  the  military  operations  of  the  city 
has  very  little  of  the  inevitable.  One  hardly  notices  that  Almahide  has  a 
third  lover,  Zulema,  who  is  mentioned  in  the  early  acts.  It  is  seen  later  that 
he  is  used  by  the  dramatist  as  a  mere  tool  in  the  manipulation  of  plot.  When 
Almanzor  has  aided  Abdalla  in  overthrowing  Boabdelin  and  is  therefore  in 
a  position  to  dispose  of  Almahide,  he  is  checked  by  his  rival  Zulema.  This 
check  so  enrages  him  that  he  deserts  Abdalla,  goes  over  to  Boabdelin,  and 
restores  the  deposed  king  to  the  throne.  The  counter-turn  may  not  be 
inevitable,  but  it  furnished  lively  action. 

It  is  action  rather  than  development  of  character  that  we  have  in  this 
play.  Almanzor  is  as  mighty  when  he  kills  the  bull  before  the  curtain  rises 
as  he  is  when  he  slays  his  adversary  at  the  close  of  the  fifth  act  of  the  Second 
Part.  And  a  splendidly  imposing  personage  he  must  have  been  to  his  ad- 
miring spectators  of  the  Restoration  theatre.  It  is  easy  enough  for  us  to 
pick  out  inconsistencies  which  we  can  glibly  say  were  intended  to  subserve 
Dryden's  plot.  Almanzor  can  quell  riots  at  a  word,  turn  defeat  into  victory, 
and  sigh  that  he  has  no  task  worthy  of  his  valor ;  but  when  it  is  necessary 
to  arrest  him  that  the  plot  may  proceed,  a  few  guards  are  easily  equal  to 
the  task.  Similarly  Almahide's  repose  under  distressing  circumstances  may 
seem  to  us  ever  to  be  the  same,  yet  this  constancy  in  love  must  have  charmed 
the  cavaliers  by  its  very  contrast  to  their  daily  experience.  She  reasons 
with  a  calm  inflexibility  of  temper  that  marks  her  off  from  her  passionate 
lover,  and  she  dispenses  wisdom  and  convincing  argument  in  couplets  as 
elegant  as  her  sentiments  are  fine. 

It  was  these  scenes  of  debate,  usually  on  love,  that  Scott  says  were  the 
most  applauded  in  the  heroic  plays ;  they  would  drive  a  modern  audience 
through  the  doors.  Scenes  almost  seem  to  be  invented  for  the  sake  of  the 
argument  they  contain.  Thus  the  attempt  of  Lyndaraxa  to  win  Almanzor 
is  a  fine  example  of  argument  in  verse  and  not  much  else.  It  is  a  foregone 
conclusion  that  no  wicked  woman  can  shake  the  faith  of  the  incomparable 
lover.  Nearly  all  of  Act  II  is  argument,  and  when  Lyndaraxa  and  one  of 
her  lovers  appear,  they  do  nothing  but  debate.  Lyndaraxa  speaks  quite 
truly  when  she  says : 

"  By  my  own  experience  I  can  tell, 
They  who  love  truly  cannot  argue  well." 

To  argue  well  is  as  necessary  to  an  heroic  lover  as  to  be  valiant  is  to  a 
soldier.  That  it  was  out  of  place  in  a  play  and  that  it  was  yet  very  good 
verse  only  show  that  Dryden  was  less  a  dramatic  than  an  argumentative  poet. 
No  form  of  verse  was  better  adapted  to  such  dialogue  than  the  couplet, 
as  we  see  it  in  perfection  in  the  later  poems.  Dryden  was  now  in  the  full 
flush  of  his  enthusiasm  over  his  verse,  and  he  not  only  used  it  in  the  heroic 
plays  but  defended  it  in  the  critical  essays.  A  serious  play,  he  says,  "is 

8 


THE  CONQUEST  OF  GRANADA 


indeed  the  representation  of  Nature,  but  'tis  Nature  wrought  up  to  a  higher 
pitch.  The  plot,  the  characters,  the  wit,  the  passions,  the  descriptions,  are 
all  exalted  above  the  level  of  common  converse,  as  high  as  the  imagination 
of  the  poet  can  carry  them,  with  proportion  to  verisimility.  .  .  .  Heroic 
rhyme  is  nearest  Nature,  as  being  the  noblest  kind  of  modern  verse  "  (Ker, 
Essays,  I,  100-1).  And  again,  "Rhyme  .  .  .  has  something  of  the  usurper 
in  him;  but  he  is  brave  and  generous,  and  his  dominion  pleasing"  (ibid.  p. 
115).  Rime  bears  about  the  same  relation  to  blank  verse  that  the  heroic 
drama  does  to  the  Shaksperean.  It  is  as  a  pair  of  stilts  on  which  the  char- 
acters stalk  through  the  play  so  that  they  may  have  the  appearance  of 
heightened  dignity.  The  very  artificiality  of  rime  suits  very  well  the  exag- 
gerated pose  of  the  characters.  It  is  essentially  declamatory  in  Dryden's 
hands  and  at  times  rises  to  poetic  heights.  The  heroic  play  would  lose  in 
complete  consistency  were  it  not  written  in  the  couplet  form,  and  it  is  sig- 
nificant that  when  Dryden  tired  of  his  long-loved  mistress  rime,  he  ceased 
to  write  heroic  plays. 

Dryden  was  not  a  great  dramatic  poet,  but  he  wrote  the  best  heroic 
drama  of  his  time.  His  stage  is  nearly  always  crowded  with  action,  his 
characters  possess  the  extravagant  traits  that  would  thrill  a  jaded  audience, 
and  his  verse  is  rarely  without  dignity.  When  events  were  not  following 
one  another  rapidly,  his  audiences  were  entertained  by  the  thrust  and  parry 
of  argumentative  discourse  on  the  all-important  matters  of  love  and  honor, 
so  that  boredom  was  impossible  to  them.  To  us  the  heroic  play  may  not 
remain,  as  Johnson  says,  "  for  the  most  part  delightful,"  yet  it  does  "  ex- 
hibit a  kind  of  illustrious  depravity,  and  majestic  madness:  such  as,  if  it  is 
somewhat  despised,  is  often  reverenced,  and  in  which  the  ridiculous  is 
mingled  with  the  astonishing." 


PROLOGUE  THE    CONQUEST   OF   GRANADA 


THE  CONQUEST  OF  GRANADA 

PART  I 

Major  rerum  mihi  nascitur  ordo; 
Majus  opus  moveo.  VIRGIL,  JEneid,  vii,  44,  45. 

PROLOGUE   TO   PART    I 
Spoken  by  Mrs.  Ellen  Gwyn,  in  a  Broad-brimmed  Hat,  and  Waist-belt. 

This  jest  was  first  of  t'other  house's  making, 
And  five  times  tried,  has  never  failed  of  taking; 
For  'twere  a  shame  a  poet  should  be  killed 
Under  the  shelter  of  so  broad  a  shield. 
This  is  that  hat,  whose  very  sight  did  win  ye 
To  laugh  and  clap  as  though  the  devil  were  in  ye. 
As  then,  for  Nokes,  so  now  I  hope  you'll  be 
So  dull,  to  laugh  once  more  for  love  of  me. 
"  I'll  write  a  play,"  says  one,  "  for  I  have  got 
A  broad-brimmed  hat,  and  waist-belt,  towards  a  plot." 
Says  t'other,  "I  have  one  more  large  than  that." 
Thus  they  out-write  each  other  with  a  hat! 
The  brims  still  grew  with  every  play  they  writ; 
And  grew  so  large,  they  covered  all  the  wit. 
Hat  was  the  play ;  'twas  language,  wit,  and  tale : 
Like  them  that  find  meat,  drink,  and  cloth  in  ale. 
What  dulness  do  these  mongrel  wits  confess, 
When  all  their  hope  is  acting  of  a  dress ! 
Thus,  two  the  best  comedians  of  the  age 
Must  be  worn  out,  with  being  blocks  o'  the  stage; 
Like  a  young  girl,  who  better  things  has  known, 
Beneath  their  poet's  impotence  they  groan. 
See  now  what  charity  it  was  to  save ! 
They  thought  you  liked,  what  only  you  forgave ; 
And  brought  you  more  dull  sense,  dull  sense  much  worse 
Than  brisk  gay  nonsense,  and  the  heavier  curse. 
They  bring  old  iron,  and  glass  upon  the  stage, 
To  barter  with  the  Indians  of  our  age. 
Still  they  write  on,  and  like  great  authors  show ; 
But  'tis  as  rollers  in  wet  gardens  grow 
Heavy  with  dirt,  and  gathering  as  they  go. 

10 


THE    CONQUEST   OF    GRANADA 


ACT  I,  Sc.  I. 


May  none,  who  have  so  little  understood, 

To  like  such  trash,  presume  to  praise  what's  good ! 

And  may  those  drudges  of  the  stage,  whose  fate 

Is  damned  dull  farce  more  dully  to  translate, 

Fall  under  that  excise  the  state  thinks  fit 

To  set  on  all  French  wares,  whose  worst  is  wit. 

French  farce,  worn  out  at  home,  is  sent  abroad; 

And,  patched  up  here,  is  made  our  English  mode. 

Henceforth,  let  poets  ere  allowed  to  write, 

Be  searched,  like  duellists  before  they  fight, 

For  wheel-broad  hats,  dull  humor,  all  that  chaff, 

Which  makes  you  mourn,  and  makes  the  vulgar  laugh : 

For  these,  in  plays,  are  as  unlawful  arms, 

As,  in  a  combat,  coats  of  mail,  and  charms. 


DRAMATIS  PERSONS 


MAHOMET  BOABDELIN,  the  last  King  of  Granada. 

PRINCE  ABDALLA,    his  brother. 

ABDELMELECH,  chief  of  the  Abencerrages. 

ZULEMA,    chief    of   the    Zegrys. 

ABENAMAR,    an    old   Abencerrago. 

SIXIN,    an  old  Zegry. 

OZMYN,    a    brave    young   Abencerrago,    son    to 

Abenamar. 

HAMET,   brother  to  Zulema,   a  Zegry. 
GOMEL,  a  Zegry. 
AI.MANZOR. 
FERDINAND,  King  of  Spain. 


DUKE   OF  ARCOS,   his  General. 

DON  ALONZO  D'AGUILAR,  a  Spanish  Captain. 

ALMAHIDE,  Queen  of  Granada. 

LYNDARAXA,    sister    of   ZULEMA,    a   Zegry   lady. 

BENZAYDA,    daughter    to    SELIN. 

ESPERANZA,   slave   to   the   Queen. 

HALYMA,   slave   to    LYNDARAXA. 

ISABELLA,    Queen    of   Spain. 

Messengers,     Guards,     Attendants,     Men,     and 
Women. 


SCENE. — GRANADA,    AND   THE    CHRISTIAN    CAMP   BESIEGING  IT. 


ACT  I 

SCENE  I 

BOABDELIN,   ABENAMAR,   ABDELMELECH,   Guards. 
Boab.     Thus,  in  the  triumphs  of  soft  peace, 

I  reign; 
And,    from    my    walls,    defy    the    powers    of 

Spain; 

With  pomp  and  sports  my  love  I  celebrate, 
While    they    keep    distance,    and    attend    my 
state. —  [To    ABEN. 

Parent  to  her,  whose   eyes  my  soul  enthral, 
Whom  I,  in  hope,  already  father  call, 
Abenamar,     thy     youth     these     sports     has 

known, 

Of  which  thy  age  is  now  spectator  grown; 
Judge-like    thou    sit'st,    to    praise,    or    to   ar- 
raign 

The  flying  skirmish  of  the  darted  cane: 
But,    when    fierce    bulls    run   loose    upon    the 
place, 


And  our  bold  Moors  their  loves  with  danger 

grace, 
Then    heat   new-bends    thy   slackened   nerves 

again, 
And  a  short  youth  runs  warm  through  every 

vein. 
Aben.     I    must    confess    the    encounters    of 

this  day 

Warmed  me  indeed,   but  quite  another  way: 
Not    with    the    fire    of    youth;    but    generous 

rage, 

To  see  the  glories  of  my  youthful  age 
So  far  out-done. 

Abdclm.     Castile   could  never  boast,   in  all 

its  pride, 

A  pomp  so  splendid,  when  the  lists,  set  wide, 
Gave  room  to  the  fierce  bulls,  which  wildly 

ran 

In  Sierra  Ronda,  ere  the  war  began; 
Who,    with    high    nostrils    snuffing    up    the 

wind, 


11 


ACT  I,  Sc.  I. 


THE    CONQUEST    OF    GRANADA 


Now    stood    the    champions    of    the    savage 

kind. 

Just  opposite,  within  the  circled  place, 
Ten  of  our  bold  Abencerrages'  race 
(Each     brandishing     his     bull-spear     in     his 

hand) 

Did  their  proud  jennets  gracefully  command. 
On     their    steeled    heads     their    demi-lances 

wore 
Small    pennons,    which    their    ladies'    colors 

bore. 

Before  this  troop  did  warlike  Ozmyn  go; 
Each  lady,  as  he  rode,  saluting  low; 
At    the    chief    stands,    with    reverence    more 

profound, 
His    well-taught    courser,    kneeling,    touched 

the  ground; 

Thence  raised,  he  sidelong  bore  his  rider  on, 
Still  facing,  till  he  out  of  sight  was  gone. 
Boab.     You   praise    him   like   a   friend;   and 

I  confess. 
His  brave  deportment  merited  no  less. 

Abdelm.     Nine  bulls  were  launched  by  his 

victorious  arm, 

Whose  wary  jennet,  shunning  still  the  harm, 
Seemed  to  attend  the  shock,  and  then  leaped 

wide: 
Meanwhile,    his    dexterous    rider,    when    he 

spied 
The  beast  just  stooping,  'twixt  the  peck  and 

head 

His   lance,   with    never-erring   fury,    sped. 
Abcn.     My  son  did  well,  and  so  did  Hamet 

too; 

Yet  did  no  more  than  we  were  wont  to  do; 
But   what   the    stranger   did  was   more    than 

man. 
Abdelm.     He  finished  all  those  triumphs  we 

began. 
One  bull,  with  curled  black  head,  beyond  the 

rest, 
And     dew-laps     hanging    from     his     brawny 

chest, 

With  nodding  front  a  while  did  daring  stand, 
And   with    his    jetty   hoof    spurned    back    tHe 

sand; 

Then,  leaping  forth,  he  bellowed  out  aloud: 
The     amazed     assistants     back     each     other 

crowd, 

While  monarch-like  he  ranged  the  listed  field; 
Some    tossed,    some    gored,    some    trampling 

down  he  killed. 

The  ignobler  Moors  from   far   his   rage  pro- 
voke 
With  woods  of  darts,  which  from  his  sides  he 

shook. 

Meantime  your  valiant  son,  who  had  before 
Gained  fame,  rode  round  to  every  mirador; 
Beneath  each  lady's  stand  a  stop  he  made, 
And,  bowing,  took  the  applauses  which  they 

paid, 
Just   in   that   point   of   time,   the  brave   ua- 

known 


Approached  the  lists. 

Boab.     I  marked  him,  when  alone 
(Observed  by  all,  himself  observing  none) 
He  entered  first,  and  with  a  graceful  pride 
His  fiery  Arab  dexterously  did  guide, 
Who  while  his  rider  every  stand  surveyed, 
Sprung  loose,  and  flew  into  an  escapade; 
Not  moving  forward,  yet,   with  every  bound, 
Pressing,     and     seeming     still     to     quit     his 

ground. 

What  after  passed 

Was  far  from  the  ventanna  where  I  sate, 
But  you  were  near,  and  can  the  truth  relate. 

[To  ABDELM. 
Abdelm.     Thus    while    he    stood,    the    bull, 

who  saw  his  foe, 

His  easier  conquests  proudly  did  forego; 
And,  making  at  him  with  a  furious  bound, 
From     his    bent    forehead     aimed    a    double 

wound. 

A  rising   murmur  ran   through  all   the   field, 
And  every  lady's  blood  with  fear  was  chilled: 
Some  shrieked,  while  others,  with  more  help- 
ful care, 

Cried  out  aloud,   "  Beware,   brave  youth,  be- 
ware ! " 

At  this  he  turned,  and,  as  the  bull  drew  near, 
Shunned    and    received    him    on    his    pointed 

spear: 

The  lance   broke   short,   the   beast   then   bel- 
lowed loud 

And  his  strong  neck  to  a  new  onset  bowed. 
The  undaunted  youth 

Then  drew!  and  from  his  saddle  bending  low, 
Just    where    the    neck    did    to    the    shoulders 

grow, 

With  his  full  force  discharged  a  deadly  blow. 
Not    heads    of   poppies    (when    they   reap    the 

grain) 
Fall    with    more    ease    before    the    laboring 

swain, 

Than  fell  this  head: 

It  fell  so  quick,  it  did  even  death  prevent, 
And    made   imperfect   bellowings   as    it   went. 
Then  all  the  trumpets  victory  did  sound, 
And   yet   their   clangors   in   our   shouts  were 
drown'd.  [A  confused  noise  within. 

Boab.     The  alarm-bell   rings   from   our   Al- 

hambra   walls, 

And    from     the    streets     sound    drums     and 
atabals. 

[Within,  a  bell,  drums,  and  trumpets. 

To   them  a  Messenger. 
How   now?   from   whence  proceed   these   new 

alarms  ? 
Mess.     The    two    fierce    factions    are    again 

in  arms; 

And,  changing  into  blood  the  day's  delight, 
The  Zegrys  with  the  Abencerrages  fight; 
On  each  side  their  allies  and  friends  appear; 
The  Macas  here,  the  Alabezes  there: 
The  Gazuls  with  the  Bencerrages  join, 
And,  with  the  Zegrys,  all  great  Gomel's  line. 


12 


THE  CONQUEST  OF  GRANADA 


ACT  I,  Sc.  I. 


Boab.     Draw    up    behind    the    Vivarambla 

place; 

Double  my  guards, — these  factions  I  will  face; 
And  try  if  all  the  fury  they  can  bring, 
Be  proof  against  the  presence  of  their  king. 

[Exit  BOAB. 

The  Factions  appear:  At  the  head  of  the 
Abencerrages,  OZMYN;  at  the  head  of 
the  Zegrys,  ZULEMA,  HAMET,  GOMEL, 
and  SELIN:  ABENAMAR  and  ABDELME- 
LECH  joined  with  the  Abencerrages. 
Zul.  The  faint  Abencerrages  quit  their 

ground; 
Press   'em;  put  home  your  thrusts   to  every 

wound. 
Abdelm.     Zegry,   on    manly    force    our   line 

relies; 

Thine    poorly    takes    the    advantage    of    sur- 
prise: 

Unarmed  and  much  out-numbered  we  retreat; 
You  gain  no  fame,  when  basely  you  defeat. 
If   thou   art  brave,    seek   nobler   victory; 
Save    Moorish    blood;    and,    while    our    bands 

stand  by, 
Let  two  to  two  an  equal  combat  try. 

Ham.     'Tis    not    for    fear    the    combat    we 

refuse, 

But  we  our  gained  advantage  will  not  lose. 
Zul.     In    combating,    but    two    of    you   will 

fall; 

And  we  resolve  we  will  despatch  you  all. 
Ocm.     We'll   double   yet   the   exchange   be- 
fore we  die, 

And   each   of   ours    two   lives   of   yours   shall 
buy. 

ALMANZOR  enters  betwixt  them,   as  they  stand 

ready  to  engage. 
Almanz.     I  cannot  stay  to  ask  which  cause 

is  best; 
But  this  is  so  to  me,  because  opprest. 

[Goes  to  the  Abencerrages. 

To    them    BOABDELIN    and    his    Guards,    going 

betwixt  them. 
Boab.     On  your  allegiance,  I  command  you 

stay; 
Who  passes  here,  through  me  must  make  his 

way; 
My   life's  the  Isthmus;   through  this  narrow 

line 
You   first    must   cut,    before   those    seas    can 

join. 
What     fury,     Zegrys,     has     possessed     your 

minds? 

What  rage  the  brave  Abencerrages  blinds? 
If    of    your    courage    you    new    proofs    would 

show, 

Without  much  travel  you  may  find  a  foe. 
Those  foes  are  neither  so  remote  nor  few, 
That    you    should    need    each    other    to    pur- 
sue. 
Lean   times   and   foreign   wars   should   minds 

unite; 


When    poor,    men    mutter,    but    they    seldom 

fight. 

O  holy  Allah!  that  I  live  to  see 
Thy  Granadines  assist  their  enemy ! 
You  fight  the  Christians'  battles;  every  life 
You  lavish  thus,  in  this  intestine  strife, 
Does    from    our    weak    foundations    take    one 

prop 
Which    helped    to    hold   our   sinking   country 

up. 
Ocin.     'Tis   fit   our   private    enmity    should 

cease; 
Though    injured    first,    yet    I    will    first    seek 

peace. 

Zul.     No,  murderer,  no;  I  never  will  be  won 
To  peace  with  him,  whose  hand  has  slain  my 

son. 

Ozm.     Our    prophet's    curse 
On   me,    and   all    the    Abencerrages   light, 
If,  unprovoked,  I  with  your  son  did  fight. 
Abdelm.     A  band  of  Zegrys  ran  within  the 

place, 

Matched  with  a  troop  of  thirty  of  our  race. 
Your    son    and    Ozmyn    the    first    squadrons 

led, 
Which,   ten  by   ten,   like   Parthians,   charged 

and  fled, 
The   ground   was   strowed   with   canes   where 

we  did  meet, 
Which     crackled    underneath    our     coursers' 

feet: 

When  Tarifa  (I  saw  him  ride  apart) 
Changed   his   blunt    cane   for   a    steel-pointed 

dart, 

And,  meeting  Ozmyn  next, — 
Who  wanted  time  for  treason  to  provide, — 
He  basely  threw  it  at  him,  undefied. 

Ozm.     [showing     his     arms}.    Witness     this 

blood — which  when  by   treason  sought, 
That  followed,  sir,  which  to  myself  I  ought. 
Zul.     His  hate  to  thee  was  grounded  on  a 

grudge, 
Which    all    our    generous    Zegrys    just    did 

judge: 

Thy  villain-blood  thou  openly  didst  place 
Above  the  purple  of  our  kingly  race. 

Boab.     From  equal  stems  their  blood  both 

houses  draw, 
They  from  Morocco,  you  from  Cordova. 

Ham.     Their   mongrel   race    is   mixed   with 

Christian  breed; 
Hence   'tis   that   they   those   dogs   in  prisons 

feed. 
Abdelm.     Our     holy     prophet     wills,     that 

charity 

Should  even  to  birds  and  beasts  extended  be: 
None    knows    what    fate    is    for    himself    de- 
signed; 
The   thought  of  human   chance   should  make 

us  kind. 
Com.     We  waste  that  time  we  to  revenge 

should  give: 
Fall  on:  let  no  Abencerrago  live. 

[Advancing   before    the    rest    of   his  party. 


13 


ACT  I,  Sc.  I. 


THE  CONQUEST  OF  GRANADA 


ALMANZOR,  advancing  on  the  other 
side,  and  describing  a  line  with  his 
sword. 

Almans.     Upon  thy  life  pass  not  this  mid- 
dle space; 
Sure    death    stands    guarding    the    forbidden 

place. 
Com.     To  dare  that  death,  I  will  approach 

yet  nigher 

Thus, — wert  thou  compassed  in  with  circling 
fire.  [They  fight. 

Boab.     Disarm    'em    both;    if    they    resist 
you,  kill. 

ALMANZOR,   in  the   midst   of   the   Guards,    kills 
GOMEL,  and  then  is  disarmed. 
Almans.     Now  you  have  but  the  leavings  of 

my  will. 
Boab.     Kill    him!    this    insolent    unknown 

shall  fall, 
And  be  the  victim  to  atone  you  all. 

Ozm.     If   he   must   die,   not   one  of  us  will 

live: 

That  life  he  gave  for  us,  for  him  we  give. 
Boab.     It  was  a  traitor's  voice  that  spoke 

those  words; 
So    are    you    all,    who    do    not    sheathe    your 

swords. 
Zul.     Outrage   unpunished,   when   a   prince 

is  by, 

Forfeits  to  scorn  the  rights  of  majesty: 
No  subject  his  protection  can  expect, 
Who  what  he  owes  himself  does  first  neglect. 

Aben.     This  stranger,  sir,  is  he, 
Who  lately  in  the  Vivarambla  place 
Did,   with    so   loud   applause,   your   triumphs 

grace. 
Boab.     The  word   which  I   have   given,   I'll 

not  revoke; 

If  he  be  brave,  he's  ready  for  the  stroke. 
Almam.     No  man  has  more  contempt  than 

I  of  breath, 
But  whence  hast  thou  the  right  to  give  me 

death  ? 

Obeyed  as  sovereign  by  thy  subjects  be, 
But  know,  that  I  alone  am  king  of  me. 
I  am  as  free  as  nature  first  made  man, 
Ere  the  base  laws  of  servitude  began, 
When  wild  in  woods  the  noble  savage  ran. 
Boab.     Since,    then,    no   power   above    your 

own  you  know, 
Mankind     should    use    you    like     a     common 

foe; 

You  should  be  hunted  like  a  beast  of  prey: 
By  your  own  law  I  take  your  life  away. 
Almans.     My   laws  are  made  but  only   for 

my  sake; 

No  king  against  himself  a  law  can  make. 
If  thou  pretend'st  to  be  a  prince  like  me, 
Blame  not  an  act,  which  should  thy  pattern 

be. 

I  saw  the  oppressed,  and  thought  it  did  be- 
long 
To  a  king's  office  to  redress  the  wrong: 


I    brought   that   succor,  which   thou   ought'st 

to  bring, 

And  so,  in  nature,  am  thy  subjects'  king. 
Boab.     I  do  not  want  your  counsel   to   di- 
rect, 

Or  aid  to  help  me  punish  or  protect. 
Almans.     Thou  want'st  'em  both,  or  better 

thou    wouldst   know, 

Than  to  let  factions  in  thy  kingdom  grow. 
Divided  interests,  while  thou  think'st  to 

sway, 
Draw,    like    two   brooks,    thy    middle    stream 

away: 

For  though  they  band  and  jar,  yet  both  com- 
bine 

To  make  their  greatness  by  the  fall  of  thine. 
Thus,  like  a  buckler,  thou  art  held  in  sight, 
While  they  behind  thee  with  each  other 

fight. 

Boab..   Away,    and    execute   him    instantly! 
[To   Ins   Guards. 

Almans.     Stand  off;  I  have  not  leisure  yet 
to  die. 

To   them   ABDALLA,    hastily. 

Abdal.     Hold,    sir!    for    heaven    sake    hold! 
Defer  this  noble  stranger's  punishment, 
Or  your  rash  orders  you  will  soon  repent. 
Boab.    Brother,  you  know  not   yet   his   in- 
solence. 

Abdal.    Upon   yourself  you  punish  his  of- 
fence: 

If  we  treat  gallant  strangers  in  this  sort, 
Mankind    will    shun    the    inhospitable    court; 
And    who,    henceforth,    to    our    defence    will 

come, 

If  death  must  be  the  brave  Almanzor's  doom  ? 
From  Africa  I  drew  him  to  your  aid, 
And   for   his    succor   have    his    life    betrayed. 
Boab.     Is  this  the  Almanzor  whom  at   Fez 

you  knew, 
When  first  their  swords  the  Xeriff  brothers 

drew? 
Abdal.     This,   sir,  is  he,  who  for  the  elder 

fought, 
And     to     the     juster     cause     the     conquest 

brought; 

Till  the  proud  Santo,  seated  in  the  throne, 
Disdained  the  service  he  had  done  to  own: 
Then  to  the  vanquished  part  his  fate  he  led: 
The    vanquished    triumphed,    and    the    victor 

fled. 

Vast  is  his  courage,  boundless   is   his  mind, 
Rough  as  a  storm,  and  humorous  as  wind: 
Honor's   the   only   idol   of  his   eyes; 
The  charms  of  beauty  like  a  pest  he  flies; 
And,  raised  by  valor  from  a  birth   unknown, 
Acknowledges  no  power  above  his  own. 

[BOABDELIN  coming  to  ALMANZOR. 
Boab.     Impute    your    danger    to   our    igno- 
rance: 

The  bravest  men  are  subject  most  to  chance: 
Granada  much  does  to  your  kindness  owe; 
But   towns,  expecting  sieges,  cannot   show 


THE  CONQUEST  OF  GRANADA 


ACT  I,  Sc.  I. 


More  honor,   than  to  invite  you  to  a  foe. 
Almans.     I   do  not  doubt  but   I   have  been 

to  blame: 

But,  to  pursue  the  end  for  which  I   came, 
Unite  your  subjects  first;   then  let  us  go, 
And  pour   their   common   rage  upon   the  foe. 
Boab.    [to    the    Factions].     Lay    down    your 

arms,  and  let  me  beg  you  cease 
Your   enmities. 

/.ul.     We  will  not  hear  of  peace, 
Till    we    by    force    have    first    revenged    our 

slain. 
Abdelm.     The  action  we  have  done  we  will 

maintain. 
Sclin.    Then    let   the   king   depart,   and   we 

will  try 
Our  cause  by  arms. 

/.ul.     For  us  and  victory! 

Boab.    A  king  entreats  you. 

Almans.     What     subjects     will     precarious 

kings  regard? 

A  beggar  speaks  too  softly  to  be  heard: 
Lay   down   your   arms!    'tis    I    command   you 

now. 

Do  it — or,  by  our  prophet's  soul  I  vow, 
My    hands    shall   right   your   king   on   him    I 

seize. 

Now  let  me  see  whose  look  but  disobeys. 
All.     Long   live   king    Mahomet    Boabdelin! 
Almans.    No    more;    but    hushed    as    mid- 
night silence  go: 

He  will  not  have  your  acclamations  now. 
Hence,  you  unthinking  crowd! — 

[The  common  people  go  off  on  both  parties. 
Empire,    thou  poor  and  despicable   thing, 
When  such  as  these  unmake  or  make  a  king! 


Abdal.     How    much 
great   soul, 


of    virtue    lies    in    one 

[Embracing   him. 


Whose   single   force   can   multitudes   control! 

[A   trumpet  within. 

Enter  a  Messenger. 

Messen.     The  Duke  of  Arcos,  sir, 
Does  with  a  trumpet  from  the  foe  appear. 


Boab.     Attend     him; 
audience  here. 


he     shall     have     his 


Enter  the  DUKE  OF  ARCOS. 
Arcos.    The    monarchs    of    Castile 


D. 
Aragon 


and 


Have  sent  me  to  you,  to  demand  this  town, 
To    which    their    just    and    rightful    claim    is 

known. 

Boab.     Tell   Ferdinand,  my  right  to  it  ap- 
pears 

By  long  possession  of  eight  hundred  years: 

When   first   my   ancestors   from   Afric    sailed, 

In  Rodrique's  death  your  Gothic   title  failed. 

I>.  Arcos.    The  successors  of  Rodrique  still 

remain, 

And  ever  since  have  held  some  part  of  Spain: 
Even  in  the  midst  of  your  victorious  powers, 
The  Asturias,  and  all  Portugal,  were  ours. 
You  have  no  right,  except  you  force  allow; 


And  if  yours  then  was  just,  so  ours  is  now. 
Boab.     'Tis  true  from  force  the  noblest  title 

springs; 
I  therefore  hold  from  that,  which  first  made 

kings. 
D.   Arcos.    Since   then*  by  force   you  prove 

your  title  true, 
Ours   must   be  just,   because   we   claim   from 

you. 

When  with  your  father  you  did  jointly  reign, 
Invading  with  your  Moors  the  south  of 

Spain, 

I,  who  that  day  the  Christians  did  command, 
Then   took,  and  brought  you  bound   to   Fer- 
dinand. 
Boab.     I'll   hear  no  more;   defer  what   you 

would   say: 

In  private  we'll  discourse  some  other  day. 
D.  Arcos.    Sir,  you  shall  hear,  however  you 

are  loth, 
That,  like  a  perjured  prince,  you  broke  your 

oath: 

To  gain  your  freedom  you  a  contract  signed, 
By   which   your   crown   you   to   my    king  re- 
signed, 

From  thenceforth  as  his  vassal  holding  it, 
And  paying  tribute  such  as  he  thought  fit; 
Contracting,   when  your  father  came   to  die, 
To  lay  aside  all  marks  of  royalty, 
And  at  Purchena  privately  to  live, 
Which,  in  exchange,  king  Ferdinand  did  give. 
Boab.     The    force   used   on    me    made    that 

contract  void. 
D.  Arcos.    Why  have  you  then  its  benefits 

enjoyed  ? 

By  it  you  had  not  only  freedom  then, 
But,  since,  had  aid  of  money  and  of  men; 
And,  when  Granada  for  your  uncle  held, 
You  were  by  us  restored,  and  he  expelled. 
Since    that,    in    peace   we   let   you   reap   your 

grain, 
Recalled  our  troops,  that  used  to  beat  your 

plain; 

And  more 

Almans.     Yes,  yes,  you  did  with  wondrous 

care, 

Against  his  rebels  prosecute   the  war, 
While  he  secure  in  your  protection  slept; 
For   him   you   took,   but   for   yourselves    you 

kept. 

Thus,  as  some  fawning  usurer  does  feed, 
With    present    sums,    the    unwary    unthrift's 

need, 

You  sold  your  kindness  at  a  boundless  rate, 
And  then  o'erpaid  the  debt  from  his  estate; 
Which,  mouldering  piecemeal,  in  your  hands 

did  fall 

Till  now  at  last  you  came  to  swoop  it  all. 
D.    Arcos.    The   wrong    you    do   my   king   I 

cannot  bear; 

Whose    kindness    you    would    odiously    com- 
pare. 
The    estate    was    his;    which    yet,    since    you 

deny, 


15 


ACT  II,  Sc.  I. 


THE  CONQUEST  OF  GRANADA 


He's  now  content,  in  his  own  wrong,  to  buy. 
Almans.     And   he    shall    buy    it   dear   what 

his  he  calls — 
We  will  not  give  one  stone  from  out  these 

walls. 

Boab.     Take   this   for   answer,    then, — 
Whate'er   your  arms   have   conquered  of  my 

land, 

I  will,  for  peace,  resign  to  Ferdinand. 
To  harder  terms  my  mind  I  cannot  bring; 
But,  as  I  still  have  lived,  will  die  a  king. 
D.    Areas.    Since    thus   you   have   resolved, 

henceforth  prepare 
For  all  the  last  extremities  of  war: 
My   king   his  hope  from  heaven's  assistance 

draws. 

Almans.     The  Moors  have  heaven,  and  me, 
to  assist  their  cause.  [Exit  ARC-OS. 

Enter  ESPERANZA. 

Esper.     Fair  Almahide, 
(Who  did   with  weeping  eyes  these  discords 

see, 

And  fears  the  omen  may  unlucky  be,) 
Prepares  a  zambra   to  be  danced   this   night, 
In  hope  soft  pleasures  may  your  minds  unite. 
Boab.     My  mistress  gently  chides  the  fault 

I  made: 

But  tedious  business  has  my  love  delayed, — 
Business,  which  dares  the  joys  of  kings  in- 
vade. 
Almans.     First  let  us  sally   out,  and  meet 

the  foe. 
Abdal.    Led  on  by  you,  we  on  to  triumph 

Sfo. 
Boab.     Then    with    the    day    let    war    and 

tumult  cease; 

The  night  be  sacred  to  our  love  and  peace: 
'Tis   just   some   joys   on   weary   kings   should 

wait; 
'Tis  all  we  gain  by  being  slaves  of  state. 

{Exeunt. 

ACT  II 

SCENE   I 

ABDALLA,  ABDELMELECH,  OZMYN,  ZULEMA,  and 
HAMET,    as  returning   from   the   sally. 

Abdal.    This    happy    day    does    to    Granada 

bring 

A  lasting  peace,  and  triumphs  to  the  king: 
The  two  fierce  factions  will  no  longer  jar, 
Since  they  have  now  been  brothers  in  the 

war. 

Those  who,   apart,  in   emulation  fought, 
The  common  danger  to  one  body  brought; 
And,  to  his  cost,  the  proud  Castilian  finds 
Our  Moorish  courage  in  united  minds. 

Abdelm.     Since    to    each    other's    aid    our 

lives  we  owe, 

Lose  we  the  name  of  faction,  and  of  foe; 
Which  I  to  Zulema  can  bear  no  more, 
Since    Lyndaraxa's    beauty    I    adore. 

Zul.     I  am  obliged  to  Lyndaraxa's  charms, 


Which    gain    the   conquest    I    should   lose   by 
arms; 

And  wish  my  sister  may  continue  fair, 

That  I  may  keep  a  good, 

Of  whose  possession  I  should  else  despai/. 
Osm.     While  we  indulge  our  common  hap- 
piness, 

He  is  forgot,  by  whom  we  all  possess; 

The  brave  Almanzor,  to  whose  arms  we  owe 

All   that  we  did,  and  all  that  we  shall  do; 

Who,  like  a  tempest,  that  outrides  the  wind, 

Made  a  just  battle  ere  the  bodies  joined. 
Abdelm.     His     victories    we     scarce    could 
keep  •  in   view, 

Or  polish  'em  so  fast  as  he  rough-drew. 
Abdal.     Fate,    after    him,    below    with    pain 
did  move, 

And  victory  could  scarce  keep  pace  above: 

Death  did  at  length  so  many  slain  forget, 

And  lost  the  tale,  and  took  'em  by  the  great. 

To  them  ALMANZOR  with  the  DUKE  OF  ARCOS, 

prisoner. 

Hamet.     See,  here  he  comes, 
And  leads  in  triumph  him  who  did  command 
The  vanquished  army  of  king  Ferdinand. 
Almanz.  [to  the  DUKE  OF  ARCOS].     Thus  far 

your  master's  arms  a  fortune  find 
Below   the  swelled  ambition  of  his  mind; 
And  Allah  shuts  a  misbeliever's  reign 
From    out    the    best    and    goodliest    part    of 

Spain. 

Let  Ferdinand  Calabrian  conquests  make, 
And  from  the  French  contested  Milan  take; 
Let   him  new  worlds  discover  to  the  old, 
And  break   up   shining   mountains,    big   with 

gold; 

Yet  he  shall  find  this  small  domestic  foe, 
Still   sharp  and  pointed,   to  his   bosom  grow. 
L>.  Areas.     Of  small  advantages   too  much 

you  boast; 
You    beat    the    out-guards    of    my    master's 

host: 

This  little  loss,  in  our  vast  body,   shows 
So    small,    that    half    have    never    heard    the 

news. 

Fame's  out  of  breath,  ere  she  can  fly  so  far, 

To  tell  'em  all  that  you  have  e'er  made  war. 

Almanz.      It   pleases   me   your   army   is    so 

great; 

For  now  I  know  there's  more  to  conquer  yet. 
By    heaven,    I'll    see    what    troops    you    have 

behind: 
I'll    face    this    storm,    that    thickens    in    the 

wind; 

And,  with   bent  forehead,  full  against  it   go, 
Till  I  have  found  the  last  and  utmost  foe. 
D.  Areas.      Believe,  you  shall  not  long  at- 
tend in  vain: 

To-morrow's  dawn  shall  cover  all  your  plain; 
Bright  arms  shall  flash  upon  you  from  afar, 
A  wood  of  lances,   and  a  moving   war. 
But  I,   unhappy,   in  my   bands,  must   yet 
Be  only  pleased  to  hear  of  your  defeat, 


16 


THE  CONQUEST  OF  GRANADA 


ACT  II,  Sc.  I. 


And  with  a  slave's  inglorious  ease  remain, 
Till    conquering     Ferdinand    has    broke    my 

chain. 
Almanz.     Vain  man,  thy  hopes  of  Ferdinand 

are  weak! 

I   hold  thy  chain  too  fast  for  him  to  break. 
But,   since   thou   threaten'st  us,   I'll    set   thee 

free, 

That  I  again  may  fight,  and  conquer  thee. 
D.  Areas.      Old  as  I  am,  I  take  thee  at  thy 

word, 
And    will    to-morrow    thank    thee    with    my 

sword. 
Almans.      I'll    go,    and    instantly    acquaint 

the   king, 

And  sudden  orders  for  thy  freedom  bring; 
Thou   canst  not   be   so  pleased  at   liberty 
As  I  shall  be  to  find  thou  dar'st  be  free. 
[Exeunt   ALMANZOR,   ARCOS,    and   the   rest, 
excepting  only   ABDALLA  and  ZULEMA. 
Abdal.      Of  all  those  Christians  who  infest 

this  town, 
This  Duke  of  Arcos  is  of  most  renown. 

Zul.     Oft     have     I     heard,     that     in     your 

father's  reign, 
His    bold    adventurers    beat    the    neighboring 

plain; 

Then  under  Ponce  Leon's  name  he  fought, 
And  from  our  triumphs  many  prizes  brought; 
Till  in  disgrace  from  Spain  at  length  he  went, 
And  since  continued  long  in  banishment. 
Abdal.     But    see,     your    beauteous     sifter 
does  appear. 

To   them   LYNDARAXA. 

Zul.     By   my   desire   she  came   to  find  me 
here. 

[ZULEMA  and  LYNDARAXA  whisper;  then 
ZULEMA  goes  out,  and  LYNDARAXA  is 
going  after. 

Abdal.      Why,    fairest    Lyndaraxa,    do    you 

fly  [Staying  her. 

A  prince,  who  at  your  feet  is  proud  to  die? 

Lyndar.     Sir,  I  should  blush  to  own  so  rude 

a    thing,  [Staying. 

As  'tis  to  shun  the  brother  of  my  king. 

Abdal.     In    my    hard   fortune    I    some   ease 

should  find, 

Did   your  disdain   extend  to  all   mankind. 
But  give  me  leave  to  grieve,  and  to  complain, 
That  you  give  others  what  I  beg  in  vain. 
Lyndar.     Take  my   esteem,   if  you  on  that 

can  live; 

For,  frankly,  sir,  'tis  all  I  have  to  give: 
If  from  my  heart  you  ask  or  hope  for  more, 
I   grieve   the  place  is   taken   up  before. 

Abdal.     My  rival  merits  you. — 
To   Abdelmelech   I   will   justice   do; 
For   he   wants   worth,    who   dares    not   praise 

a  foe. 
Lyndar.     That  for  his  virtue,  sir,  you  make 

defence, 

Shows    in   your    own   a   noble   confidence. 
But  him    defending,   and   excusing  me, 


I  know  not  what  can  your  advantage  be. 
Abdal.     I  fain  would  ask,  ere  I  proceed  in 

this, 

If,  as  by  choice,  you  are  by  promise  his? 
Lyndar.     The  engagement  only  in  my  love 

does  lie, 

But  that's  a  knot  which  you  can  ne'er  untie. 
Abdal.     When     cities     are     besieged,     and 

treat  to  yield, 

If  there  appear  relievers  from  the  field, 
The  flag  of  parley  may  be  taken  down, 
Till  the  success  of  those  without  be  known. 
Lyndar.     Though  Abdelmelech  has  not  yet 

possest, 

Yet  I  have  sealed  the  treaty  for  my  breast. 
Abdal.     Your    treaty    has    not   tied    you    to 

a  day; 
Some  chance  might  break  it,  would  you  but 

delay. 

If  I  can  judge  the  secrets  of  your  heart, 
Ambition  in  it  has  the  greatest  part; 
And  wisdom,  then,  will  show  some  difference 
Betwixt  a  private  person  and  a  prince. 

Lyndar.     Princes    are    subjects    still, — 
Subject    and     subject    can    small     difference 

bring: 

The  difference  is  'twixt  subjects  and  a  king. 
And  since,  sir,  you  are  none,  your  hopes  re- 
move; 

For  less  than  empire  I'll  not  change  my  love. 
Abdal.     Had  I  a  crown,  all  I   should  prize 

in  it, 

Should  be  the  power  to  lay  it  at  your  feet. 
Lyndar.     Had   you   that   crown    which   you 

but  wish,  not  hope, 

Then  I,  perhaps,  might  stoop  and  take  it  up. 
But  till   your  wishes  and  your  hopes  agree, 
You  shall  be  still  a  private  man  with  me. 
Abdal.     If    I    am   king,   and    if   my    brother 

die, 

Lyndar.     Two  if's   scarce   make  one  possi- 
bility. 
Abdal.     The    rule    of    happiness    by    reason 

scan; 
You  may  be  happy  with  a  private  man. 

Lyndar.     That  happiness  I  may  enjoy,  'tis 

true; 

But  then  that  private  man  must  not  be  you. 
Where'er  I  love,  I'm  happy  in  my  choice; 
If  I  make  you  so,  you  shall  pay  my  price. 
Abdal.     Why  would  you  be  so  great? 
Lyndar.     Because    I've    seen, 
This   day,   what   'tis   to   hope   to  be   a   queen. 
Heaven,    how    you   all    watched    each    motion 

of  her  eye! 

None  could  be  seen  while  Almahide  was  by, 
Because   she   is  to  be  Her  Majesty! — 
Why  would  I  be  a  queen?      Because  my  face 
Would  wear  the  title  with  a  better  grace. 
If  I  became  it   not,  yet  it  would  be 
Part  of  your  duty,  then,  to  flatter  me. 
These  are  not  half  the  charms  of  being  great; 
I  would  be  somewhat — that  I   know  not  yet: 
Yes!  I  avow  the  ambition  of  my  soul, 


17 


ACT  II,  Sc.  I. 


THE  CONQUEST  OF  GRANADA 


To   be    that   one,   to   live   without   control! 
And   that's  another  happiness   to  me, 
To  be  so  happy  as  but  one  can  be. 

Abdal.       Madam,  —  because     I      would     all 

doubts    remove, — 

Would  you,  were  I  a  king,  accept  my  love? 
Lyndar.     I  would   accept   it;   and,    to  show 

'tis  true, 
From  any  other  man  as  soon  as  you. 

Abdal.     Your   sharp    replies    make   me    not 

love  you   less; 

But  make  me   seek   new  paths   to  happiness. 
What  I  design,  by  time  will  best  be  seen: 
You  may  be  mine,  and  yet  may  be  a  queen. 


so,    your    word    your    love 


When    you    are 

assures. 
Lyndar.     Perhaps  not  love  you, — but  I  will 

be    yours. — 

[He  offers  to  take  her  hand,  and  kiss  it. 
Stay,  sir,  that  grace  I  cannot  yet  allow, 
Before  you  set   the  crown  upon   my   brow. — 
That  favor  which  you  seek, 
Or  Abdelmelech,   or  a   king,   must   have; 
When  you  are  so,  then  you  may  be  my  slave. 
[Exit;  but  looks  smiling  back  on  him. 
Abdal.     Howe'er    imperious    in    her    words 

she  were, 

Her  parting  looks  had  nothing  of  severe; 
A  glancing  smile  allured  me  to  command, 
And  her  soft  fingers  gently  pressed  my  hand: 
I  felt  the  pleasure  glide  through  every  part; 
Her  hand  went  through  me  to  my  very  heart. 
For  such  another  pleasure,  did  he  live, 
I  could  my  father  of  a  crown  deprive. 
What  did  I  say?— 
Father!— That   impious   thought   has   shocked 

my   mind: 
How    bold    our    passions    are,    and    yet    how 

blind!— 

She's   gone;  and  now, 

Methinks  there  is  less  glory  in  a  crown: 
My  boiling  passions  settle,  and  go  down. 
Like  amber  chafed,  when  she  is  near,  she 

acts; 
When  farther  off,  inclines,  but  not  attracts. 

To  him  ZULEMA. 

Assist  me,  Zulema,  if  thou  wouldst  be 
That   friend  thou  seem'st,  assist   me  against 

me. 

Betwixt  my  love  and  virtue  I   am   tossed; 
This   must   be   forfeited,    or   that   be   lost. 
I   could  do  much   to  merit   thy   applause; 
Help    me    to   fortify    the    better    cause. 
My  honor  is  not  wholly   put   to   flight, 
But   would,  if   seconded,   renew   the  fight. 

Zul.    I  met  my  sister,  but  I  do  not  see 
What  difficulty  in  your  choice  can  be: 
She  told  me  all;  and  'tis  so  plain  a  case, 
You  need   not  ask   what  counsel   to  embrace. 

Abdal.     I  stand  reproved,  that  I  did  doubt 

at  all; 
My  waiting  virtue  stayed  but  for  thy  call: 


'Tis  plain  that  she,  who,  for  a  kingdom,  now 


Would  sacrifice  her  love,  and  break  her  vow, 
Not  out  of  love,  but  interest,  acts  alone, 
And  would,  even  in  my  arms,  lie  thinking  of 

a  throne. 
Zul.     Add    to    the   rest    this    one   reflection 

more: 

When  she  is  married,  and  you  still  adore, 
Think   then— and   think   what  comfort  it   will 

bring — 

She   had   been   mine, 
Had   I  but  only   dared  to  be  a  king! 

Abdal.     I   hope  you   only   would   my   honor 

try; 
I'm  loth  to  think  you  virtue's  enemy. 


a   crown   and   mistress    are 


Zul.     If,  when 

in    place, 

Virtue  intrudes,  with  her  lean  holy  face, 
Virtue's  then  mine,  and  not  I  virtue's  foe. 
Why   does   she   come   where   she   has   nought 

to   do? 

Let  her  with  anchorites,  not  with  lovers,  lie; 
Statesmen  and  they  keep  better  company. 
Abdal.     Reason     was    given     to    curb    our 

headstrong    will. 
Zul.     Reason  but  shows  a  weak  physician's 

skill; 

Gives  nothing,  while  the  raging  fit  does  last, 
But  stays  to  cure  it,  when  the  worst  is  past. 
Reason's  a  staff  for  age,  when  nature's  gone; 
But  youth  is  strong  enough  to  walk  alone. 
Abdal.      In     cursed     ambition     I     no     rest 

should   find, 

But  must   for   ever   lose   my   peace   of  mind. 
Zul.     Methinks    that    peace    of    mind    were 

bravely   lost. 

A  crown,  whate'er  we  give,  is  worth  the  cost. 
Abdal.     Justice  distributes  to  each  man  his 

right; 
But   what   she   gives   not,    should    I    take   by 

might? 
Zul.     If  justice  will   take  all,   and  nothing 

give, 
Justice,  methinks,  is  not  distributive. 

Abdal.     Had    fate    so    pleased,    I    had    been 

eldest  born, 
And   then,   without   a   crime,   the   crown   had 

worn. 
Zul.     Would  you  so  please,  fate  yet  a  way 

would  find; 

Man  makes   his  fate  according  to   his   mind. 
The    weak     low    spirit     fortune     makes     her 

slave; 
But    she's   a    drudge   when    hectored    by    the 

brave : 
If  fate  weaves   common  thread,  he'll   change 

the  doom, 

And  with   new  purple  spread  a  nobler  loom. 
Abdal.     No   more! — I    will    usurp   the    royal 

seat; 
Thou,   who  hast  made   me  wicked,   make  me 

great. 
Zul.     Your    way    is    plain:     the    death    of 

Tarifa 
Does  on  the  king  our  Zegrys*   hatred   draw; 


18 


THE  CONQUEST  OP  GRANADA 


ACT  III,  Sc.  I. 


Though   with  our  enemies  in   show  we  close, 
Tis  but  while  we  to  purpose  can  be  foes. 
Selin,  who  heads  us,  would  revenge  his  son; 
But   favor    hinders   justice    to    be    done. 
Proud  Ozmyn  with  the  king  his  power  main- 
tains, 
And  in  him  each  Abencerrago  reigns. 

Abdal.     What  face  of  any  title  can  I  bring? 
Zul.     The   right   an   eldest    son   has    to   be 
king. 

Your  father  was  at  first  a  private  man, 
And  got  your  brother  ere  his  reign  began: 
When,  by   his  valor,  he   the   crown   had  won, 
Then  you  were  born,  a  monarch's  eldest  son. 
Abdal.     To    sharp-eyed    reason    this    would 

seem  untrue; 

But  reason  I  through  love's  false  optics  view. 
Zul.     Love's    mighty     power    has    led    me 

captive  too; 
I  am  in  it  unfortunate  as  you. 

Abdal.     Our   loves    and    fortunes    shall    to- 
gether go; 

Thou  shalt  be  happy,  when  I  first  am  so. 
ZuL     The  Zegrys  at  old  Selin's   house  are 

met, 
Where,    in    close    council,    for    revenge    they 

sit: 

There  we  our  common  interest  will  unite; 
You   their  revenge  shall  own,  and  they  your 

right. 

One   thing   I   had  forgot  which  may   import: 
I   met  Almanzor   coming  back  from  court, 
But  with  a  discomposed  and  speedy  pace, 
A  fiery  color  kindling   all   his   face: 
The  king   his  prisoner's  freedom   has  denied, 
And  that  refusal  has  provoked  his  pride. 

Abdal.     Would  he  were  ours! — 
I'll  try  to  gild  the  injustice  of  his  cause, 
And  court  his  valor  with  a  vast  applause. 
Zul.     The  bold  are  but  the  instruments  o' 

the  wise; 

They  undertake  the  dangers  we  advise: 
And,    while    our    fabric    with    their   pains    we 

raise, 

We  take  the  profit,  and  pay  them  with  praise. 

[Exeunt. 

ACT  III 

SCENE   I 

ALMANZOR  and  ABDALLA. 
Almanz.     That    he    should    dare    to    do    me 

this    disgrace ! — 

Is  fool  or  coward  writ  upon  my  face? 
Refuse  my  prisoner!— I  such  means  will  use, 
He  shall  not  have  a  prisoner  to  refuse. 

Abdal.     He    said    you    were    not    by    your 

promise  tied; 

That  he  absolved  your  word,  when  he  denied. 
Almanz.     He    break    my    promise    and    ab- 
solve my  vow! 

'Tis  more  than  Mahomet  himself  can  do! 
The  word  which  I  have  given  shall  stand  like 


fate; 


the    king's,    that    weathercock    of 


Not    like 

state. 

He  stands  so  high,  with  so  unfixed  a  mind, 
Two  factions  turn  him  with  each  blast  of 

wind: 
But    now,    he    shall    not    veer!    My    word    is 

passed; 
I'll  take  his  heart  by  the  roots,  and  hold  it 

fast. 
Abdal.     You  have  your  vengeance  in  your 

hand  this  hour; 

Make  me  the  humble  creature  of  your  power: 
The   Granadines   will   gladly   me   obey 
Tired  with   so  base  and  impotent  a  sway; 
And,  when  I   show  my  title,  you  shall  see 
I  have  a  better  right  to  reign  than  he. 

Almanz.     It  is  sufficient  that  you  make  the 

claim ; 
You   wrong   our  friendship  when   your  right 

you   name. 

When  for  myself  I  fight,  I  weigh  the  cause, 
But  friendship  will  admit  of  no  such  laws: 
That  weighs  by  the  lump;  and,  when  the 

cause  is  light, 

Puts  kindness  in  to  set  the  balance  right. 
True,  I  would  wish  my  friend  the  juster  side; 
B_uJk__jn__the    unjust,    my    kindness    mpre__is_ 

tried; 
And  all  the  opposition  I  can  bri 


fear  to  make  you  such  a  kir 
<dal.     The   majraty   of  king's   we   should 
not  blame, 

When  royal  minds  adorn  the  royal  name; 
The  vulgar,  greatness  too  much  idolize, 
But  haughty  subjects  it  too  much  despise. 

Almanz.     I  only  speak  of  him, 
Whom    pomp     and    greatness    sit    so    loose 

about, 
That  he  wants  majesty  to  fill  'em  out. 

Abdal.     Haste,    then,    and    lose    no    time! — 
The  business  must  be  enterprised  this  night: 
We  must  surprise  the  court  in  its  delight. 
Almanz.     For   you    to    will,    for   me   'tis   to 

obey: 

But  I  would  give  a  crown  in  open  day; 
And,  when  the  Spaniards  their  assault  begin, 
At  once  beat  those  without,  and  these  within. 
[Ex-it  ALMANZ. 
Enter  ABDELMELECH. 

Abdelm.     Abdalla,  hold !— There's  somewhat 

I  intend 

To  speak,  not  as  your  rival,  but  your  friend. 
Abdal.     If    as    a    friend,    I    am    obliged    to 

hear; 
And   what   a   rival   says    I   cannot   fear. 

Abdelm.     Think,  brave  Abdalla,   what   it  is 

you  do: 

Your  quiet,   honor,  and  our  friendship   too, 
All    for    a    fickle    beauty    you    forego. 
Think,   and   turn  back,  before  it   be  too  late. 
Behold  in  me  the  example  of  your  fate: 
I    am   your   sea-mark;   and,    though   wrecked 
and   lost, 


1!) 


ACT  III,  Sc.  I. 


THE  CONQUEST  OF  GRANADA 


My  ruins  stand  to  warn  you  from  the  coast. 
Abdal.     Your  counsels,   noble  Abdelmelech, 

move 

My  reason  to  accept  'em,  not  my  love. 
Ah,  why  did  heaven  leave  man  so  weak 

defence, 

To  trust  frail  reason  with  the  rule  of  sense! 
'Tis  overpoised  and   kicked   up   in   the  air, 
While    sense    weighs    down    the    scale,    and 

keeps  it  there; 

Or,  like  a  captive  king,  'tis  borne  away, 
And  forced  to  countenance  its  own  rebel's 

sway. 
Abdelm.     No,     no;     our     reason     was     not 

vainly  lent; 

Nor  is  a  slave,  but  by  its  own  consent: 
If  reason  on  his  subject's  triumph  wait, 
An  easy  king  deserves  no  better  fate. 

Abdal.     You   speak    too   late;    my   empire's 

lost  too  far: 
I  cannot  fight. 

Abdelm.     Then  make  a  flying  war; 
Dislodge  betimes  before  you  are  beset. 

Abdal.     Her    tears,    her    smiles,    her   every 

look's  a  net. 

Her  voice  is  like  a  Siren's  of  the  land; 
And  bloody  hearts  lie  panting  in  her  hand. 
Abdelm.     This  do  you  know,  and  tempt  the 
'    danger  still? 
Abdal.     Love,    like    a   lethargy,    has    seized 

my  will. 

I'm  not  myself,  since  from  her  sight  I  went; 
I   lean  my   trunk   that  way,   and   there   stand 

bent. 
As  one  who,  in  some  frightful  dream,  would 

shun 

His  pressing  foe,  labors  in  vain  to  run; 
And  his  own   slowness  in  his  sleep  bemoans, 
With  thick  short  sighs,  weak  cries,  and  ten- 
der  groans, 

So  I 

Abdelm.     Some    friend,    in    charity,    should 

shake, 

And  rouse,  and  call  you  loudly  till  you  wake. 
Too  well  I   know  her  blandishments  to   gain, 
Usurper-like,   till  settled  in   her  reign; 
Then    proudly    she    insults,    and    gives    you 

cares 

And    jealousies,    short    hopes    and    long    de- 
spairs. 

To  this  hard  yoke  you  must  hereafter  bow, 
Howe'er  she  shines  all  golden  to  you  now. 

Abdal.     Like  him,  who  on  the  ice 
Slides   swiftly  on,   and   sees   the   water   near, 
Yet  cannot  stop  himself  in  his  career, 
So  am    I    carried.     This   enchanted   place, 
Like  Circe's   isle,   is  peopled   with   a   race 
Of   dogs   and   swine;    yet,    though    their   fate 

I  know, 
I  look  with  pleasure,  and  am  turning  too. 

[LYNDARAXA  passes  over  the  stage. 
Abdelm.     Fly,  fly,  before  the  allurements  of 

her  face, 
Ere  she  return  with  some  resistless  grace, 


And  with  new'  magic  covers  all  the  place. 
Abdal.     I    cannot,    will    not,— nay,    I    would 

not  fly: 

I'll  love,  be  blind,  be  cozened  till  I  die; 
And  you,  who  bid  me  wiser  counsel  take, 
I'll  hate,  and,  if  I  can,  I'll  kill  you  for  her 

sake. 
Abdelm.     Even  I,  that  counselled  you,  that 

choice   approve: 

I'll  hate  you  blindly,  and  her  blindly  love. 
Prudence,   that   stemmed   the   stream,    is   out 

of  breath; 
And  to  go  down  it  is  the  easier  death. 

LYNDARAXA  re-enters,   and   smiles   on   ABDALLA. 

[Exit  ABDALLA. 
Abdelm.     That    smile    on    Prince    Abdalla 

seems  to  say, 

You  are  not  in  your  killing  mood  to-day: 
Men  brand,  indeed,  your  sex  with  cruelty, 
But  you're   too   good   to   see  poor   lovers   die. 
This  godlike  pity  in  you  I  extol; 
And  more,  because,  like  heaven's,  'tis  general. 
Lyndar.     My  smile  implies  not  that  I  grant 

his    suit: 
'Twas  but  a  bare  return  of  his  salute. 

Abdelm.     It    said,    you    were    engaged,    and 

I  in  place; 
But,    to    please    both,    you    would    divide    the 

grace. 
Lyndar.     You've     cause     to     be     contented 

with  your  part, 

When  he  has  but  the  look,  and  you  the  heart. 
Abdelm.     In  giving  but  that  look,  you  give 

what's  mine: 

I'll  not  one  corner  of  a  glance  resign. 
All's  mine;  and  I   am  covetous  of  my   store: 
I    have   not   love   enough;    I'll   tax   you   more. 
Lyndar.      I     gave     not     love;     'twas     but 

civility: 

He  is  a  prince;   that's  due  to  his  degree. 
Abdelm.     That  prince  you  smiled  on  is  my 

rival    still, 

And  should,  if  me  you  loved,  be  treated  ill. 
Lyndar.     I  know  not  how  to  show  so  rude 

a   spite. 
Abdelm.     That    is,    you    know    not    how    to 

love    aright; 

Or,  if  you  did,  you  would  more  difference  see 
Betwixt  our  souls,  than  'twixt  our  quality. 
Mark,  if  his  birth   makes   any   difference, 
If   to   his   words   it   adds  one   grain   of   sense. 
That  duty  which  his  birth  can  make  his  due 
I'll   pay,   but   it   shall   not   be   paid  by   you: 
For,  if  a  prince  courts  her  whom  I  adore, 
He  is  my  rival,  and  a  prince  no  more. 

Lyndar.     And    when    did    I    my    power    so 

far  resign, 

That  you  should  regulate  each  look  of  mine? 
Abdelm.     Then,  when   you   gave  your  love, 

you   gave   that  power. 

Lyndar.     'Twas    during    pleasure,    'tis    re- 
voked this   hour. 
Now  call  me  false,  and  rail  on  womankind, — 


20 


THE  CONQUEST  OF  GRANADA 


ACT  III,  Sc.  I. 


'Tis  all  the  remedy  you're  like  to  find. 

Abdelm.     Yes,    there's   one   more; 
I'll  hate  you,  and  this  visit  is  my  last. 

Lyndar.     Do't  if  you  can;  you  know  I  hold 

you  fast: 

Yet,  for  your  quiet,  would  you  could  resign 
Your  love,  as  easily  as  I  do  mine. 

Abdelm.     Furies     and     hell,     how     uncon- 
cerned she  speaks! 
With    what    indifference    all    her    vows    she 

breaks! 
Curse  on  me,   but  she  smiles! 

Lyndar.     That   smile's  a  part   of  love,  and 

all's   your  due: 

I  take  it  from  the  prince,  and  give  it  you. 
Abdelm.     Just  heaven,  must  my  poor  heart 

your  May-game  prove, 

To  bandy,  and  make  children's  play  in  love? 

[Half   crying. 

Ah !  how  have  I  this  cruelty  deserved  ? 
I,  who  so  truly  and  so  long  have  served! 
And   left   so   easily !  oh,   cruel  maid ! 
So  easily!     'Twas  too  unkindly  said. 
That   heart   which   could   so   easily   remove 
Was  never  fixed,  nor  rooted  deep  in  love. 
Lyndar.     You  lodged  it  so  uneasy  in  your 

breast, 

I  thought  you  had  been  weary  of  the  guest. 
First,  I  was  treated  like  a  stranger  there; 
But,   when   a   household  friend   I   did   appear, 
You  thought,  it  seems,  I  could  not  live  else- 
where. 

Then,  by  degrees,  your  feigned  respect  with- 
drew; 
You    marked   my    actions,    and    my    guardian 

grew. 

But  I  am  not  concerned  your  acts  to  blame: 
My  heart  to  yours  but  upon  liking  came; 
And,   like  a  bird   whom   prying   boys   molest, 
Stays   not  to  breed  where  she  had  built  her 

nest. 

Abdelm.     I   have  done  ill, 

And  dare  not  ask  you  to  be  less  displeased; 
Be  but  more  angry,  and  my  pain  is  eased. 
Lyndar.     If  I  should  be  so  kind  a  fool,  to 

take 

This  little   satisfaction  which   you   make, 
I  know  you  would  presume  some  other  time 
Upon  my  goodness,  and  repeat  your  crime. 
Abdelm.     Oh    never,    never,    upon    no    pre- 
tence; 

My  life's  too  short  to  expiate  this  offence. 
Lyndar.     No,  now  I  think  on't,  'tis  in  vain 

to  try; 

Tis  in  your  nature,  and  past  remedy, 
You'll   still  disquiet  my   too  loving   heart: 
Now  we  are  friends,  'tis  best  for  both  to  part. 
Abdelm.     [taking   her   hand}.     By    this— will 

you   not  give  me  leave   to  swear? 
Lyndar.     You    would    be    perjured    if    you 

should,    I    fear: 

And,  when  I   talk  with   Prince   Abdalla  next, 

I   with  your   fond   suspicions   shall   be   vexed. 

Abdelm.    I  cannot  say  I'll  conquer  jealousy, 


But,   if   you'll  freely   pardon  me,   I'll   try. 
Lyndar.     And,     till    you     that     submissive 

servant  prove, 
I  neve,   can  conclude  you  truly  love. 

To    them    the    King,     ALMAHIDE,     ABENAMAR, 
ESPERANZA,    Guards,    Attendants. 

Boab.  Approach,  my  Almahide,  my  charm- 
ing fair, 

Blessing  of  peace,  and  recompence  of  war. 

This  night  is  yours;  and  may  your  life  still 
be 

The  same  in  joy,   though  not  solemnity. 

SONG 


Beneath   a   myrtle   shade, 

Which  love  for  none  but  happy  lovers  made, 
I    slept;    and    straight    my    love    before    me 

brought 

Phyllis,   the  object  of  my   waking  thought. 
Undressed   she   came   my   flames   to   meet, 
While  love  strowed  flowers  beneath  her  feet; 
Flowers    which,    so    pressed   by    her,    became 
more    sweet. 


From  the  bright  vision's  head 
A  careless   veil   of   lawn  was   loosely   spread: 
From  her  white  temples  fell  her  shaded  hair, 
Like    cloudy    sunshine,    not    too    brown    nor 

fair; 

Her   hands,   her  lips,    did  love   inspire; 
Her  every  grace  my  heart  did  fire; 
But   most   her    eyes,   which   languished    with 

•  desire. 

in 

"  Ah,    charming   fair,"   said   I, 
"  How    long    can    you    my    bliss    and    yours 

deny? 

By  nature  and  by  love  this  lonely  shade 
Was    for   revenge    of    suffering    lovers   made. 
Silence  and  shades  with  love  agree; 
Both  shelter  you  and  favor  me: 
You  cannot  blush,  because  I  cannot  see." 


"  No,  let  me  die,"  she  said, 
"  Rather    than    lose    the    spotless    name    of 

maid !  " 
Faintly,    methought,    she   spoke;    for   all    the 

while 

She  bid  me  not  believe  her,  with  a  smile. 
"Then  die,"  said  I:   she  still  denied; 
"  And  is  it  thus,   thus,  thus,"  she  cried, 


You   use 
died! 


a   harmless   maid?  " — and   so   she 


I  waked,  and  straight  I  knew, 
I    loved   so   well,   it   made   my   dream   prove 


21 


ACT  III,  Sc.  I. 


THE  CONQUEST  OF  GRANADA 


Fancy,   the   kinder  mistress  of  the   two, 
Fancy  had  done  what  Phyllis  would  not  do! 
Ah,  cruel  nymph,  cease  your  disdain; 
While  I   can  dream,  you  scorn  in  vain,— 
Asleep   or  waking,   you  must   ease   my   pain. 

THE  ZAMBRA  DANCE. 

[After  the  dance,  a  tumultuous  noise  of  drums 
and   trumpets. 

To  them  OZMYN;  his  sword  drawn. 

Osm.     Arm,  quickly,  arm;  yet  all,   I  fear, 
too  late; 

The  enemy's  already  at  the  grate. 

Boab.     The  Christians  are  dislodged;  what 

foe  is  near? 

Osm.     The  Zegrys  are  in  arms,  and  almost 
here: 

The  streets  with  torches   shine,  with   shout- 
ings ring, 

And  Prince  Abdalla  is  proclaimed  the  king. 

What  man  could  do,   I  have  already  done, 

But  bold  Almanzor  fiercely  leads  'em  on. 
Aben.     The    Alhambra   yet    is    safe    in    my 
command;  [To  the  KING. 

Retreat    you    thither,    while   their    shock    we 

stand. 

Boab.     I    cannot   meanly    for   my    life    pro- 
vide; 

I'll  either  perish  in't,  or  stem  this  tide. 

To  guard   the   palace,    Ozmyn,   be   your  care: 

If  they  o'ercome,  no  sword  will  hurt  the  fair. 
Osm.     I'll  either  die,  or  I'll  make  good  the 

place. 

Abdelm.     And    I    with    these    will   bold   Al- 
manzor face. 

[Exeunt  all  but  the  Ladies.     An  alarm  within. 
Almah.     What   dismal    planet   did    my    tri- 
umphs light! 

Discord    the    day,    and    death    does    rule    the 
night: 

The  noise  my  soul   does  through  my  senses 

wound. 

Lyndar.    Methinks  it  is   a  noble,   sprightly 
sound, 

The     trumpet's    clangor,    and    the     clash    of 
arms! 

This  noise  may  chill  your  blood,  but  mine  it 
warms. 
[Shouting  and  clashing  of  swords  within. 

We  have  already  passed  the  Rubicon; 

The    dice    are    mine;    now,    fortune,     for    a 
throne ! 

[A   shout  within,  and  clashing  of  swords  afar 
off. 

The  sound  goes  farther  off,  and  faintly  dies; 

Curse  of  this  going  back,  these  ebbing  cries! 

Ye   winds,    waft   hither    sounds   more    strong 
and  quick; 

Beat  faster,  drums,  and  mingle  deaths  more 
thick. 

I'll  to  the  turrets  of  the  palace  go, 

And  add  new  fire  to  those  that  fight  below: 

Thence,  Hero-like,  with   torches   by   my   side 


(Far  be  the  omen,  though)  my  love  I'll  guide. 
No;  like  his  better  fortune  I'll  appear, 
With  open  arms,  loose  veil,  and  flowing  hair, 
Just  flying  forward  from  my   rolling   sphere: 
My    smiles    shall    make    Abdalla    more    than 

man; 
Let  him  look  up,  and  perish  if  he  can.     [Exit. 

An   alarm   nearer:   then   enter   ALMANZOR   and 

SELIN  at  the  head  of  the  Zegrys; 

OZMYN,  prisoner. 

Almam.     We  have  not  fought  enough;  they 

fly  too  soon; 

And  I  am  grieved  the  noble  sport  is  done. 
This    only    man,    of    all    whom    chance    did 
bring 

[Pointing  to  OZMYN. 

To  meet   my  arms,  was  worth   the  conquer- 
ing. 

His  brave  resistance  did  my  fortune  grace; 
So  slow,  so  threatening  forward,  he  gave 

place. 
His  chains  be  easy,  and  his  usage  fair. 

Selin.     I    beg    you    would    commit    him    to 

my  care. 
Almanz.     Next,    the    brave    Spaniard    free 

without  delay; 
And  with  a  convoy  send  him  safe  away. 

[Exit  a  Guard. 

To   them   HAMET  and  others. 

Hamet.     The  king  by  me  salutes  you;  and, 

to  show 

That  to  your  valor  he  his  crown  does  owe, 
Would  from  your  mouth  I  should  the  word 

receive, 
And    that    to    these   you    would    your    orders 

give. 

Almanz.     He    much    o'errates    the    little    I 
have  done. 

[ALMANZOR    goes    to    the    door,    and    there 
seems    to    give    out    orders    hy    sending 
people  sei'eral  ways. 
Selin    [to    OZMYN].     Now,    to    revenge    the 

murder  of  my  son, 

To-morrow  for  thy  certain  death  prepare; 
This   night  I   only   leave   thee   to   despair. 

Ozmyn.     Thy   idle   menaces   I   do   not   fear: 
My   business  was   to  die  or  conquer   here. 
Sister,  for  you  I  grieve  I  could  no  more: 
My  present  state  betrays  my  want  of  power; 
But,  when  true  courage  is  of  force  bereft, 
Patience,  the  noblest  fortitude,   is  left. 

[Exit  with  SELIN. 

Almah.     Ah,    Esperanza,    what    for   me    re- 
mains 
But   death,  or,  worse   than  death,   inglorious 

chains ! 
Esper.     Madam,    you   must   not    to    despair 

give  place; 

Heaven  never  meant  misfortune  to  that  face. 
Suppose  there  were  no  justice  in  your  cause, 
Beauty's  a  bribe  that  gives  her  judges  laws. 


22 


THE  CONQUEST  OF  GRANADA 


ACT  III,  Sc.  I. 


That  you  are  brought  to  this  deplored  estate, 
Is  but  the  ingenious  flattery  of  your  fate; 
Fate  fears   her  succor  like  an  alms   to   give; 
And     would     you,     God-like,     from     yourself 

should    live. 
Almah.     Mark    but    how    terrible    his    eyes 

appear ! 
And    yet    there's    something    roughly    noble 

there, 

Which,   in   unfashioned   nature,   looks   divine, 
And,  like  a  gem,  does  in  the  quarry  shine. 
[ALMANZOR   returns;   she   falls  at   his  feet, 

being  veiled. 
Almah.    Turn,      mighty      conqueror,      turn 

your  face  this  way, 

Do  not  refuse  to  hear  the  wretched  pray ! 
Almanz.    What    business    can    this    woman 

have  with  me? 

Almah.    That  of  the  afflicted  to  the  Deity. 
So  may  your  arms  success  in  battles  find; 
So  may   the  mistress  of  your  vows  be  kind, 
If  you  have  any;  or,  if  you  have  none, 
So  may  your  liberty  be  still  your  own! 

Almanz.    Yes,  I  will  turn  my  face,  but  not 

my  mind: 

You  bane  and  soft  destruction  of  mankind, 
What  would  you  have  with  me? 

Almah.     I  beg  the  grace  [Unveiling. 

You  would  lay  by  those  terrors  of  your  face. 
Till  calmness  to  your  eyes  you  first  restore, 
I  am  afraid,  and  I  can  beg  no  more. 

Almanz.  [looking  fixedly  on  her].     Well;  my 

fierce  visage  shall  not  murder  you. 
Speak   quickly,   woman;   I   have   much   to  do. 
Almah.     Where  should  I  find  the  heart  to 

speak  one  word? 

Your  voice,  sir,  is  as  killing  as  your  sword. 
As  you  have  left  the  lightning  of  your  eye, 
So  would  you  please  to  lay  your  thunder  by. 
Almans.     I'm  pleased  and  pained,  since  first 

her  eyes   I  saw, 

As  I  were  stung  with  some  tarantula. 
Arms,  and  the  dusty  field,  I  less  admire, 
And  soften  strangely  in  some  new  desire; 
Honor  burns  in   me   not   so  fiercely   bright, 
But  pale  as  fires  when  mastered  by  the  light: 
Even   while  I   speak   and  look,   I  change  yet 

more, 

And  now  am  nothing  that  I  was  before. 
I'm  numbed,   and  fixed,   and  scarce  my   eye- 
balls move; 

I  fear  it  is  the  lethargy  of  love! 
"Tis  he;  I  feel  him  now  in  every  part: 
Like  a  new  lord  he  vaunts  about  my  heart; 
Surveys,  in  state,  each  corner  of  my  breast, 
While   poor   fierce    I,    that    was,    am    dispos- 
sessed. 

I'm  bound;  but  I  will  rouse  my  rage  again; 
And,    though    no   hope   of   liberty    remain, 
I'll  fright  my  keeper  when  I  shake  my  chain. 

You  are lAngrily. 

Almah.     I  know  I  am  your  captive,  sir. 
Almans.     You    are— You    shall— And    I    can 
scarce  forbear 


Almah.     Alas ! 

Almans.     'Tis   all   in   vain;    it  will   not   do: 

[Aside. 

I   cannot  now  a   seeming  anger   show: 
My  tongue  against  my  heart  no  aid  affords; 
For  love  still  rises  up,  and  chokes  my  words. 
Almah.     In  half  this  time  a  tempest  would 

be  still. 
Almanz.    'Tis  you  have  raised  that  tempest 

in  my  will. 

I  wonnot  love  you;  give  me  back  my  heart; 
But  give  it,  as  you  had  it,  fierce  and  brave. 
It  was  not  made  to  be  a  woman's  slave: 
But,  lion-like,  has  been  in  deserts  bred, 
And,  used  to  range,  will  ne'er  be  tamely  led. 
Restore  its  freedom  to  my  fettered  will, 
And  then  I  shall  have  power  to  use  you  ill. 
Almah.     My   sad   condition  may  your  pity 

move; 

But  look  not  on  me  with  the  eyes  of  love. — 

I  must  be  brief,  though  I  have  much  to  say. 

Almans.     No,    speak;    for    I    can    hear    you 

now  all  day.  [Softly. 

Her   suing  soothes  me   with   a   secret   pride: 

A  suppliant  beauty  cannot  be  denied:   [Aside. 

Even  while  I  frown,  her  charms  the  furrows 

seize; 

And  I'm  corrupted  with  the  power  to  please. 
Almah.     Though  in  your  worth  no  cause  of 

fear  I  see, 

I  fear  the  insolence  of  victory; 
As  you  are  noble,  sir,  protect  me  then 
From  the  rude  outrage  of  insulting  men. 
Almans.     Who    dares    touch    her    I    love? 

I'm  all  o'er  love: 

Nay,  I  am  Love;  Love  shot,  and  shot  so  fast, 
He  shot  himself  into  my  breast  at  last. 
Almah.     You     see     before     you     her     who 

should   be    queen, 
Since  she  is  promised  to  Boabdelin. 

Almans.     Are    you     beloved    by     him?      O 

wretched  fate, 

First,  that  I  love  at  all;  then,  love  too  late! 
Yet,  I  must  love! 

Almah.     Alas,  it  is  in  vain; 
Fate  for  each  other  did  not  us  ordain. 
The  chances  of  this  day   too  clearly  show 
That  heaven  took  care  that  it  should  not  be 

•o. 

Almans.     Would    heaven    had    quite   forgot 
me  this  one  day! 

But  fate's  yet  hot 

I'll  make  it  take  a  bent  another  way. 
[He  walks  swiftly  and  discomposedly,  studying. 
I    bring    a    claim    which    does    his    right    re- 
move; 
You're  his   by  promise,   but  you're   mine   by 

love. 

'Tis  all  but  ceremony  which  is  past; 
The  knot's  to  tie  which  is  to  make  you  fast. 
Fate  gave  not  to  Boabdelin  that  power; 
He  wooed  you   but  as   my  ambassador. 
Almah.     Our  souls   are   tied  by   holy   vows 
above. 


23 


ACT  III,  Sc.  I. 


THE  CONQUEST  OF  GRANADA 


Almans.     He    signed    but    his;    but    I    will 

seal  my  love. 
I  love  you  better,  with  more  zeal  than  he. 

Almah.     This  day 
I  gave  my  faith  to  him,  he  his  to  me. 

Almans.     Good    heaven,    thy    book    of    fate 

before  me  lay, 

But  to  tear  out  the  journal  of  this  day: 
Or,  if  the  order  of  the  world  below 
Will  not  the  gap  of  one  whole  day  allow, 
Give  me  that  minute  when  she  made  her  vow! 


'  That    minute,    ev'n 
bliss  might  give; 


the    happy    from    their 


"  And  those,  who  live  in  grief,  a  shorter  time 
would  live." 

So  small  a  link,  if  broke,  the  eternal  chain 

Would,   like  divided   waters,   join  again. — 

It  wonnot  be;  the  fugitive  is  gone, 

Pressed   by   the  crowd  of   following   minutes 
on: 

That  precious  moment's  out  of  nature  fled, 

And  in  the  heap  of  common  rubbish  laid, 

Of  things  that  once  have  been,  and  are  de- 
cayed. 

Almah.     Your   passion,   like  a   fright,    sus- 
pends  my   pain; 

It   meets,    o'erpowers,    and   bears   mine    back 
again: 

But  as,  when  tides  against  the  current  flow, 

The   native   stream   runs   its  own   course   be- 
low, 

So,    though    your    griefs    possess    the    upper 
part, 

My  own   have  deeper  channels   in  my  heart. 
Almans.     Forgive  that  fury  which  my  soul 
does  move; 

'Tis  the  essay  of  an  untaught  first  love: 

Yet  rude,  unfashioned  truth  it  does  express; 

'Tis  love  just  peeping  in  a  hasty  dress. 

Retire,  fair  creature,  to  your  needful  rest; 

There's     something     noble     laboring     in     my 
breast: 

This  raging  fire  which  through  the  mass  does 
move 

Shall   purge  my   dross,   and   shall   refine   my 
love. 

\Exeunt  ALMAHIDE  and  ESPERANZA. 

She  goes,  and  I   like  my   own   ghost  appear; 

It  is  not  living  when  she  is  not  here. 


To    him    ABDALLA    as   King,    attended. 
acknowledgments 


to 


Abdal.       My      first 

heaven  are  due; 
My  next,  Almanzor,  let  me  pay  to  you. 
.   Almans.     A  poor  surprise,  and  on  a  naked 

foe, 

Whatever  you  confess,  is  all  you  owe; 
And  I  no  merit  own,  or  understand 
That  fortune  did  you  justice  by  my  hand: 
Yet,  if  you  will  that  little  service  pay 
With  a  great  favor,  I  can  show  the  way. 

Abdal.     I  have  a  favor  to  demand  of  you; 
That  is,  to  take  the  thing  for  which  you  sue. 


Almans.     Then,    briefly,    thus:    when    I    the 

Albayzin   won, 

I  found  the  beauteous  Almahide  alone, 
Whose   sad  condition  did  my  pity   move; 
And  that  compassion  did  produce  my  love. 

Abdal.     This    needs    no    suit;    in    justice,    I 

declare, 
She  is  your  captive  by  the  right  of  war. 

Almans.     She  is  no  captive  then;  I  set  her 

free; 

And,  rather  than  I  will  her  jailer  be, 
I'll  nobly  lose  her  in  her  liberty. 

Abdal.     Your   generosity    I   much    approve; 
But  your  excess  of  that  shows  want  of  love. 

Almans.     No,  'tis  the  excess  of  love  which 

mounts  so  high 

That,  seen  far  off,  it  lessens  to  the  eye. 
Had  I  not  loved  her,  and  had  set  her  free, 
That,    sir,    had   been    my   generosity; 
But  'tis  exalted  passion,  when  I  show 
I  dare  be  wretched,  not  to  make  her  so: 
And,   while  another   passion   fills   her  breast, 
I'll  be  all  wretched  rather  than  half  blest. 


Abdal. 
be, 


May  your  heroic  act  so  prosperous 

That  Almahide  may  sigh  you  set  her  free. 

Enter  ZULEMA. 

Z.il.     Of  five  tall  towers  which  fortify  this 

town, 

All    but   the    Alhambra    your    dominion    own: 
Now,  therefore,  boldly   I   confess  a  flame, 
Which   is   excused    in   Almahida's   name. 
If  you  the  merit  of  this  night  regard, 
In  her  possession  I  have  my  reward. 

Almans.     She    your    reward !    why,    she's    a 

gift  so  great, 

That  I  myself  have  not  deserved  her  yet; 
And   therefore,    though   I    won   her   with    my 

sword, 
I  have,  with  awe,  my  sacrilege  restored. 

Zul.     What  you  deserve 
I'll  not  dispute  because  I   do  not  know; 
This  only  I  will  say,   she  shall  not   go. 
Almanz.     Thou,   single,   art   not   worth   my 

answering: 
But    take    what    friends,    what    armies    thou 

canst  bring; 

What  worlds;  and,  when  you  are   united  all, 
Then    I    will    thunder    in    your    ears:      "  She 

shall ! " 

Zul.     I'll  not  one  tittle  of  my  right  resign. 

Sir,    your   implicit   promise    made    her    mine; 

When  I  in  general  terms  my  love  did  show, 

You  swore  our  fortunes  should  together  go. 

Abdal.     The   merits    of    the    cause    I'll    not 

decide, 

But,  like  my  love,  I  would  my  gift  divide. 
Your  equal  titles,   then,   no   longer  plead; 
But  one  of  you,  for  love  of  me,  recede. 
Almans.     I    have    receded    to    the    utmost 

line, 

When,  by  my  free  consent,  she  is  not  mine: 
Then  let  him  equally  recede  with  me, 


24 


THE  CONQUEST  OF  GRANADA 


ACT  IV,  Sc.  I. 


And  both  of  us  will  join  to  set  her  free. 
/.ul.     If  you  will  free  your  part  of  her,  you 

may; 

But,  sir,  I  love  not  your  romantic  way. 
Dream  on,  enjoy  her  soul,  and  set  that  free; 
I'm  pleased  her  person  should  be  left  for  me. 
Almans.     Thou    shalt    not    wish    her   thine; 

thou  shalt   not  dare 
To  be  so  impudent  as  to  despair. 

'/.ul.     The  Zegrys,  sir,  are  all  concerned  to 

see 

How  much  their  merit  you  neglect  in  me. 
Hiimct.     Your   slighting   Zulema    this   very 

hour 
Will   take   ten   thousand   subjects  from  your 

power. 

A  Imam.     What   are  ten   thousand  subjects 
such  as  they  ? 

If  I   am  scorned I'll  take  myself  away. 

Abdal.     Since    both    cannot    possess    what 

both  pursue, 
I   grieve,   my   friend,   the  chance   should   fall 

on  you; 
But    when    you    hear    what    reasons    I    can 

urge 

Almans.     None,  none  that  your  ingratitude 

can  purge. 

Reason's   a  trick,   when  it  no   grant   affords; 
It  stamps  the  face  of  majesty  on  words. 
Abdal.     Your   boldness   to   your   services   I 

give: 
Now  take  it,  as  your  full   reward — to  live. 

Almans.     To  live! 

If  from  thy  hands  alone  my  death  can  be, 
I  am  immortal,  and  a  god,  to  thee. 
If  I  would  kill  thee  now,  thy  fate's  so  low, 
That   I  must  stoop  ere  I   can  give  the  blow: 
But  mine  is  fixed  so  far  above  thy  crown, 
That  all  thy  men, 

Piled  on   thy  back,   can  never  pull   it  down. 
But   at  my   ease  thy  destiny   I   send, 
By   ceasing  from  this  hour  to  be   thy  friend. 
Like   heaven,   I  need  but  only   to  stand  still, 
And,  not  concurring  to  thy  life,  I   kill. 
Thou  canst  no  title  to  my  duty  bring; 
I'm  not  thy  subject,  and  my  soul's  thy  king. 
Farewell.    When  I  am  gone, 
There's   not  a  star   of   thine  dare   stay  with 

thee: 

I'll  whistle  thy  tame  fortune  after  me; 
And  whirl  fate  with  me  wheresoe'er  I  fly, 
As  winds  drive  storms  before  'em  in  the  sky. 

[Exit. 

/.ul.     Let  not  this  insolent  unpunished  go; 
Give    your    commands;    your    justice    is    too 
slow. 
[ZULEMA,     HAMET,    and    others    are    going 

after  him. 
Abdal.     Stay,  and  what  part  he  pleases  let 

him    take: 
I   know   my   throne's   too   strong   for  him   to 

shake. 

But  my  fair  mistress   I   too  long  forget; 
The  crown   I  promised  is  not  offered  yet. 


Without  her  presence   all  my  joys  are  vain, 
Empire  a  curse,  and  life  itself  a  pain. 

[.Exeunt. 

ACT  IV 

SCENE  I 
BOABDELIN,   ABENAMAR,   Guards. 

Boob.     Advise,  or  aid,  but  do  not  pity  me: 
No  monarch  born  can  fall  to  that  degree. 
Pity  descends  from  kings  to  all  below; 
But    can,    no    more    than    fountains,    upward 

flow. 
Witness,  just  heaven,  my  greatest  grief  has 

been, 

I  could  not  make  your  Almahide  a  queen. 
Aben.     I   have  too  long  the  effects  of  for- 
tune known, 

Either  to  trust  her  smiles,  or  fear  her  frown. 
Since    in    their    first    attempt    you    were    not 

slain, 

Your  safety   bodes   you  yet  a   second   reign. 
The  people  like  a  headlong  torrent  go, 
And  every  dam  they  break,  or  overflow; 
But,  unopposed,  they  either  lose  their  force, 
Or  wind  in  volumes   to   their  former  course. 
Boab.     In  walls  we  meanly  must  our  hopes 

enclose, 

To  wait  our  friends,  and  weary  out  our  foes: 
While  Almahide 

To  lawless  rebels  is  exposed  a  prey, 
And  forced  the  lustful  victor  to  obey. 

Aben.     One  of  my  blood,  in  rules  of  virtue 

bred! 
Think  better  of  her,  and  believe  she's  dead. 

To  them  ALMANZOR. 

Boab.    We  are  betrayed,  the  enemy  is  here; 
We  have  no  farther  room  to  hope  or  fear. 


Almans. 
see, 


It  is  indeed   Almanzor  whom   you 


But  he  no  longer  is  your  enemy. 

You    were    ungrateful,    but    your    foes    were 

more; 

What  your  injustice  lost  you,  theirs  restore. 
Make  profit  of  my  vengeance  while  you  may; 
My  two-edged  sword  can  cut  the  other 

way. — 

I  am  your  fortune,  but  am  swift  like  her, 
And    turn    my    hairy    front   if   you   defer: 
That   hour  when  you   deliberate,   is   too   late; 
I  point  you  the  white  moment  of   your  fate. 
Aben.     Believe    him    sent    as    prince    Ab- 

dalla's   spy ; 
He  would  betray  us  to   the   enemy. 

Almans.     Were    I,    like    thee,    in    cheats    of 

state    grown    old 
(Those    public    markets,    where    for    foreign 

gold 

The  poorer  prince  is  to  the  richer  sold), 
Then    thou    mightst    think    me    fit    for    that 

low  part; 
But  I   am   yet  to  learn  the   statesman's  art. 


25 


ACT  IV,  So.  II. 


THE  CONQUEST  OF  GRANADA 


My  kindness  and  my  hate  unmasked  I  wear; 

For  friends  to  trust,  and  enemies  to  fear. 

My  heart's  so  plain 

That    men    on    every    passing    thought    may 
look, 

Like   fishes   gliding  in   a  crystal   brook; 

When    troubled    most,    it    does    the    bottom 
show; 

'Tis    weedless    all    above,    and    rockless    all 

below. 

Abeti.     Ere  he  be  trusted,  let  him  first  be 
tried; 

He  may  be  false,  who  once  has  changed  his 

side. 

Almanz.     In    that   you    more    accuse   your- 
selves than  me; 

None  who  are  injured  can  unconstant  be. 

You     were    unconstant,    you,    who    did    the 
wrong; 

To  do  me  justice  does  to  me  belong. 

Great  souls  by  kindness  only  can  be  tied; 

Injured  again,   again   I'll  leave  your  side. 

Honor   is   what   myself,   and   friends,    I    owe; 

And  none  can  lose  it  who  forsake  a  foe. 

Since,    then,    your    foes    now    happen    to    be 
mine, 

Though    not    in   friendship,    we'll    in   interest 
join: 

So  while  my  loved  revenge  is  full  and  high, 

I'll   give  you  back  your  kingdom  by  the   by. 
Boab.   [embracing  him].    That  I  so  long  de- 
layed what  you  desire, 

Was  not  to  doubt  your  worth,  but  to  admire. 
Almanz.     This     counsellor     an     old     man's 
caution   shows, 

Who  fears  that  little  he  has  left  to  lose: 

Age    sets    to    fortune;     while    youth    boldly 
throws. 

But  let  us  first  your  drooping  soldiers  cheer; 

Then  seek  out  danger,  ere  it  dare  appear: 

This  hour  I  fix  your  crown  upon  your  brow; 

Next  hour  fate  gives  it,  but  I  give  it  now. 

[Exeunt. 


Lyndar. 
of   fate, 


SCENE    II 
LYNDARAXA  alone. 
O,  could  I  read  the  dark  decrees 


That   I   might   once   know  whom  to  love,  or 

hate! 
For   I   myself   scarce  my   own   thoughts  can 

guess, 

So   much   I   find   'em   varied   by  success. 
As  in  some   weather-glass,   my   love   I   hold; 
Which  falls  or  rises  with  the  heat  or  cold. 
I   will  be  constant   yet,   if   Fortune  can; 
I  love  the  king, — let  her  but  name  the  man. 


To   her  HALYMA. 
gentleman, 


to    me     un- 


Ilnl.     Madam, 

known, 
Desires   that  he  may  speak  with   you  alone. 


Lyndar.     Some     message     from     the    king. 
Let  him  appear. 

To  her  ABDELMELECH;  who  entering  throws  off 
his  disguise.     She  starts. 

Abdelm.     I  see  you  are  amazed  that  I  am 

here: 

But  let  at  once  your  fear  and  wonder  end. 
In  the  usurper's  guard  I  found  a  friend, 
Who  led  me  to  you  safe  in  this  disguise. 
Lyndar.     Your   danger   brings   this   trouble 

in  my  eyes. 

But  what  affair  this  venturous   visit   drew? 
Abdelm.     The    greatest    in    the    world,— the 

seeing   you. 
Lyndar.     The    courage   of    your    love    I    so 

admire 

That,    to    preserve    you,    you    shall    straight 

retire.  [She  leads  him  to  the  door. 

Go,    dear!    each    minute    does    new    dangers 

bring ; 
You  will  be  taken;  I  expect  the  king. 

Abdelm.     The    king! — the    poor    usurper    of 

an    hour: 

His  empire's  but  a  dream  of  kingly  power. — 
I  warn  you,  as  a  lover  and  a  friend, 
To  leave  him  ere  his  short  dominion  end: 
The  soldier  I  suborned  will  wait  at  night, 
And  shall  alone  be  conscious  of  your  flight. 
Lyndar.     I    thank   you   that   you    so    much 

care    bestow; 

But,  if  his  reign  be  short,  I  need  not  go. 
For  why  should   I   expose  my  life  and  yours 
For  what,  you  say,  a  little  time  assures? 
Abdelm.     My    danger    in    the    attempt    is 

very  small; 

And,  if  he  loves  you,  yours  is  none  at  all. 
But,  though  his  ruin  be  as  sure  as  fate, 
Your   proof  of   love    to   me    would    come   too 

late. 

This  trial  I  in  kindness  would  allow; 
'Tis   easy;   if  you   love  me,   show   it  now. 

Lyndar.     It  is  because  I  love  you,  I  refuse; 

For  all  the  world  my  conduct  would  accuse, 

If  I  should  go  with  him  I  love  away: 

And,    therefore,   in   strict  virtue   I   will   stay. 

Abdelm.     You  would  in  vain  dissemble  love 

to  me; 

Through  that  thin  veil  your  artifice  I  see. 
You    would   expect   the    event,   and    then    de- 
clare; 

But  do  not,  do  not  drive  me  to  despair: 
For,  if  you  now  refuse  with  me  to  fly, 
Rather  than  love  you  after  this,  I'll  die; 
And     therefore     weigh     it     well    before    you 

speak; 

My   king  is  safe,  his  force  within  not  weak. 
Lyndar.     The   counsel  you   have   given   me 

may  be  wise; 

But,   since  the  affair  is  great,   I   will  advise. 
Abdelm.     Then  that  delay  I  for  denial  take. 

[Is   going. 

Lyndar.     Stay;    you    too    swift    an    exposi- 
tion make. 


26 


THE  CONQUEST  OF  GRANADA 


ACT  IV,  So.  II. 


If  I   should   go,   since  Zulema  will    stay, 
I   should  my  brother  to  the  king  betray. 
Abdelin.     There    is    no    fear;    but,    if    there 

were,  I   see 

You  value  still  your  brother  more  than  me. 
Farewell!  some  ease  I  in  your  falsehood  find; 
It  lets  a  beam  in  that  will  clear  my  mind: 
My  former  weakness  I  with  shame  confess, 
And,  when  I  see  you  next,  shall  love  you  less. 
[Is  going  again. 

Lyndar.     Your   faithless    dealing    you    may 
blush    to    tell;  [Weeping. 

This    is     a    maid's    reward,    who    loves     too 
well. —  [He  looks  back. 

Remember  that  I  drew  my  latest  breath 
In  charging  your  unkindness  with  my  death. 
Abdelm.    [coming    back}.    Have    I    not    an- 
swered all  you  can  invent, 
Even  the  least  shadow  of  an  argument? 
Lyndar.     You  want  not  cunning  what  you 

please  to  prove, 

But  my  poor  heart  knows  only  how  to  love; 
And,   finding   this,  you   tyrannize  the  more: 
'Tis   plain,   some   other   mistress   you   adore; 
And  now,  with  studied  tricks  of  subtilty, 
You  come   prepared  to  lay   the  fault  on   me. 
[Wringing  her  hands. 

But,    O,   that   I   should  love   so   false  a   man! 
Abdelm.     Hear   me,    and   then   disprove   it, 

if  you  can. 
Lyndar.     I'll  hear  no  more;  your  breach  of 

faith   is   plain : 

You  would  with  wit  your  want  of  love  main- 
tain. 

But,  by   my  own   experience,   I   can   tell, 
They    who   love    truly   cannot    argue    well. — 
Go,  faithless  man! 

Leave  me  alone  to  mourn  my  misery; 
I  cannot  cease  to  love  you,  but   I'll  die. 

[Leans    her    head    on    his    arm. 
Abdelm.     What    man    but    I    so    long    un- 
moved   could    hear  [Weeping. 
Such  tender  passion,  and  refuse  a  tear! 
But  do  not  talk  of  dying  any  more, 
Unless    you   mean   that    I    should    die    before. 
Lyndar.     I    fear    your    feigned    repentance 

comes    too    late; 

I  die,  to  see  you  still  thus  obstinate: 
But  yet,  in  death  my  truth  of  love  to  show, 
Lead    me;    if    I    have    strength    enough,    I'll 

go. 
Abdelm.     By   heaven,   you  shall  not   go!     I 

will  not  be 

O'ercome  in  love  or   generosity. 
All   I  desire,   to   end  the  unlucky   strife, 
Is  but  a  vow  that  you  will  be  my  wife. 
Lyndar.     To    tie    me    to   you   by   a   vow   is 

hard; 

It  shows  my  love  you  as  no  tie  regard. 
Name   anything   but   that,   and   I'll   agree. 
Abdelm.     Swear,   then,   you   never   will   my 

rival's  be. 

Lyndar.     Nay,  pr'ythce,  this  is  harder  than 
before. 


Name    anything,    good    dear,    but    that    thing 

more. 
Abdelm.     Now    I    too    late    perceive    I    am 

undone; 

Living  and  seeing,  to  my  death   I   run. 
I  know  you  false,  yet  in  your  snares  I  fall; 
You  grant  me  nothing,  and  I   grant  you  all. 
Lyndar.     I    would    grant    all;    but    I    must 

curb  my  will, 

Because  I   love   to  keep  you  jealous  still. 
In   your   suspicion   I    your   passion   find; 
But   I   will    take   a  time   to    cure   your   mind. 
Halyma.     O,  madam,  the  new  king  is  draw- 
ing near! 
Lyndar.      Haste     quickly     hence,     lest     he 

should   find  you   here! 
Abdelm.     How   much    more   wretched    than 

I    came,    I    go! 
I    more    my    weakness    and    your    falsehood 

know; 
And  now  must   leave  you   with   my   greatest 

foe!  [Exit   ABDELM. 

Lyndar.    Go! — How     I     love     thee,    heaven 

can    only    tell: 

And  yet  I  love  thee,  for  a  subject,  well. — 
Yet,   whatsoever   charms   a  crown   can  bring, 
A    subject's   greater    than    a   little    king. 
I  will  attend  till  time  this  throne  secure; 
And,    when     I    climb,    my    footing    shall    be 

sure. —  [Music    without. 

Music!  and,  I  believe,  addressed  to  me. 

SONG 

i 

Wherever  I   am,   and  whatever  I  do, 

My  Phyllis  is  still  in  my  mind; 
When  angry,  I  mean  not  to  Phyllis  to  go, 

My  feet,  of  themselves,   the  way  find; 
Unknown  to  myself  I  am  just  at  her  door, 
And,   when  I  would  rail,  I   can  bring  out  no 
more, 

Than,  "  Phyllis  too  fair  and  unkind !  " 


When  Phyllis  I  see,  my  heart  bounds  in  my 

breast, 

And  the  love  I  would  stifle  is  shown; 
But  asleep,  or  awake,  I  am  never  at  rest, 
When   from   my   eyes    Phyllis   is   gone. 
Sometimes  a  sad  dream  does  delude  my  sad 

mind; 

But,  alas !  when  I  wake,  and  no  Phyllis  I  find, 
How  I  sigh  to  myself  all  alone! 


Should  a  king  be  my  rival  in  her  I  adore, 
He   should  offer  his   treasure   in   vain* 

O,  let  me  alone  to  be  happy  and  poor, 
And  give  me  my  Phyllis  again! 

Let   Phyllis   be   mine,   and  but   ever  be   kind, 

I  could  to  a  desert  with  her  be  confined, 
And  envy  no  monarch  his  reign. 


27 


ACT  IV,  Sc.  II. 


THE  CONQUEST  OF  GRANADA 


Alas !    I   discover  too  much  of  my  love, 

And  she  too  well  knows  her  own  power! 
She   makes   me   each   day   a  new  martyrdom 

prove, 

And  makes  me  grow  jealous  each  hour: 
But    let    her   each   minute    torment   my   poor 

mind, 

I  had  rather  love  Phyllis,  both  false  and  un- 
kind, 
Than   ever   be   freed   from    her   power. 

Enter  ABDALLA,  with  Guards. 
Abdal.     Now,  madam,  at  your  feet  a  king 

you   see; 

Or,    rather,    if  you   please,   a   sceptred   slave; 
'Tis  just  you  should  possess  the  power  you 

gave. 

Had  love  not  made  me  yours,  I  yet  had  been 
But  the  first  subject  to  Boabdelin. 
Thus    heaven    declares    the    crown    I    bring 

your  due; 

And   had   forgot   my    title,   but   for   you. 
Lyndar.     Heaven    to    your    merits    will,     I 

hope,   be  kind; 

But,  sir,  it  has  not  yet  declared  its  mind. 
Tis    true,    it    holds    the    crown    above    your 

head; 

But  does  not  fix  it  till  your  brother's  dead. 
Abdal.     AH    but    the    Alhambra    is    within 

my  power; 

And  that  my  forces  go  to  take  this  hour. 
Lyndar.     When,  with  its  keys,  your  broth- 
er's  head   you   bring, 
I  shall  believe  you  are  indeed  a  king. 

Abdal.     But  since  the  events  of  all  things 

doubtful  are, 

And,  of  events,  most  doubtful  those  of  war; 
I   beg   to  know  before,   if  fortune  frown, 
Must  I  then  lose  your  favor  with  my  crown? 
Lyndar.     You'll    soon    return    a    conqueror 

again; 

And,  therefore,  sir,  your  question  is  in  vain. 
Abdal.     I  think  to  certain  victory  I  move; 
But  you   may   more  assure  it   by   your   love. 
That  grant  will  make  my  arms  invincible. 
Lyndar.     My  prayers  and  wishes  your  suc- 
cess  foretell. — 
Go  then,  and  fight,  and  think  you  fight  for 

me; 
I   wait  but  to  reward  your  victory.   ' 

Abdal.     But   if   I   lose   it,   must  I    lose   you 

too? 
Lyndar.     You  are  too  curious,  if  you  more 

would   know. 

I  know  not  what  my  future  thoughts  will  be: 
Poor  women's   thoughts  are   all  extempore. 
Wise    men,    indeed, 

Beforehand    a    long    chain    of    thoughts    pro- 
duce; 

But   ours  are  only  for  our  present   use. 
Abdal.     Those  thoughts,  you  will  not  know, 

too   well   declare 
You  mean  to  wait  the  final  doom  of  war. 


Lyndar.     I   find  you   come   to  quarrel   with 

me   now; 

Would  you  know  more  of  me  than  I  allow  ? 
Whence  are  you  grown  that  great  divinity 
That  with  such  ease  into  my  thoughts  can 

pry? 

Indulgence  does  not  with  some  tempers  suit; 
I  see  I  must  become  more  absolute. 

Abdal.     I   must   submit, 
On    what    hard    terms    soe'er    my    peace    be 

bought. 
Lyndar.     Submit! — you   speak   as   you   were 

not  in  fault. 

'Tis   evident   the  injury  is  mine; 
For    why    should    you    my    secret    thoughts 

divine? 
Abdal.     Yet    if    we    might    be    judged    by 

reason's   laws! — 
Lyndar.     Then  you  would  have  your  reason 

judge  my  cause! — 
Either     confess    your     fault,    or    hold    your 

tongue; 

For  I   am  sure  I'm  never  in   the  wrong. 
Abdal.     Then  I  acknowledge  it. 
Lyndar.    '  Then   I    forgive. 

Abdal.     Under  how  hard  a  law  poor  lovers 

live! 
Who,   like   the  vanquished,    must   their  right 

release, 

And     with     the     loss     of     reason     buy     their 
peace. —  [Aside. 

Madam,    to   show   that    you   my    power   com- 
mand, 

I  put   my  life  and   safety  in   your  hand. 
Dispose  of   the   Albayzin   as   you   please, 
To  your  fair  hands  I   here  resign   the  keys. 
Lyndar.     I    take    your    gift,    because    your 

love   it  shows, 
And   faithful   Selin   for  alcalde   choose. 

Abdal.     Selin,   from   her  alone   your  orders 

take. 

This  one  request,  yet,  madam,  let  me  make, 
That  from  those  turrets  you  the  assault  will 

see; 

And   crown,   once  more,   my   arms   with   vic- 
tory. [Leads   her   out. 

SELIN   remains   with   GAZUL   and   REDUAN,   his 
servants. 

Selin.     Gazul,   go   tell  my  daughter   that   I 

wait. 

You,  Reduan,  bring  the  prisoner  to  his  fate. 
[Exeunt  GAZ.  and  RED. 

Ere  of  my  charge  I  will  possession  take, 
A   bloody   sacrifice  I   mean  to   make: 
The  manes   of  my   son   shall    smile   this  day, 
While    I,    in    blood,    my    vows    of    vengeance 
pay. 

Enter  at  one  door  BENZAYDA,   -with   GAZUL;   at 
the  other,   OZMYN  bound,  with    REDUAN. 

Selin.     I  sent,  Benzayda,  to  glad  your  eyes: 
These  rites  we  owe  your  brother's  obsequies. — 


28 


THE  CONQUEST  OF  GRANADA 


ACT  IV,  So.  II. 


You    two    [to    GAZ.    and    RED.]     the    accurst 

Abencerrago  bind: 
You    need    no    more    to    instruct   you    in    my 

mind. 

[They  bind  him  to  one  corner  of  the  stage. 
Bens.     In  what  sad  object  am  I  called  to 

share? 

Tell  me,  what  is  it,  sir,  you  here  prepare? 
Selin.     'Tis    what   your   dying    brother    did 

bequeath: 

A  scene  of  vengeance,  and  a  pomp  of  death! 
Bens.     The  horrid  spectacle   my   soul  does 

fright; 
I  want  the  heart  to  see  the  dismal  sight. 

Selin.     You  are  my  principal  invited  guest, 
Whose     eyes     I    would    not    only    feed,    but 

feast: 

You  are  to  smile  at  his  last  groaning  breath, 
And  laugh  to  see  his  eyeballs  roll  in  death; 
To  judge  the  lingering  soul's  convulsive 

strife, 
When   thick   short  breath   catches  at  parting 

life. 
Bens.     And  of  what   marble   do   you   think 

me  made? 
Selin.     What!  can   you  be  of   just  revenge 

afraid  ? 
Bens.     He    killed    my    brother   in    his    own 

defence. 

Pity   his   youth,   and  spare   his  innocence. 
Selin.     Art   thou   so   soon    to   pardon   mur- 
der   won  ? 

Can  he  be  innocent,  who  killed  my  son? 
Abenamar  shall  mourn  as  well  as  I; 
His  Ozmyii,  for  my  Tarifa,   shall  die. 
But  since   thou  plead'st  so  boldly,  I  will  see 
That    justice    thou    wouldst    hinder    done    by 

thee. 
Here — [gives  her  his  sword] — take  the  sword, 

and  do   a   sister's   part: 
Pierce    his,    fond    girl,    or    I    will    pierce    thy 

heart. 
Osm.     To    his    commands    I    join    my    own 

request; 
All    wounds    from    you    are    welcome    to    my 

breast: 
Think    only,    when    your    hand    this    act    has 

done, 

It  has  but  finished  what  your  eyes  begun. 
I  thought  with  silence  to  have  scorned  my 

doom; 

But   now   your   noble   pity    has   o'ercome; 
Which      I      acknowledge      with      my      latest 

breath, — 

The  first  whoe'er  began  a  love  in  death. 
Bens,    [to    SELIN].     Alas,   what  aid   can   my 

weak    hand    afford  ? 

You  see  I  tremble  when  I  touch  a  sword: 
The    brightness    dazzles    me,    and    turns    my 

sight; 

Or,  if  I  look,  'tis  but  to  aim  less  right. 
<i   ni.     I'll   guide  the  hand   which   must  my 

death  convey; 
My  leaping  heart  shall  meet  it  half  the  way. 


Selin    [to    BENZ.].     Waste   not   the  precious 

time   in    idle   breath. 

Bens.     Let   me    resign    this    instrument   of 
death. 

[Giving    the   sword   to    her   father,    and 

then   pulling  it  back. 
Ah,   no!   I   was    too   hasty   to   resign: 
'Tis  in  your  hand  more  mortal  than  in  mine. 

To   them   HAMET. 

Hamet.     The    king    is    from    the    Alhambra 

beaten  back, 

And  now  preparing  for  a  new  attack; 
To  favor   which,   he  wills   that   instantly 
You    reinforce    him    with    a    new    supply. 
Selin    [to    BENZ.].    Think   not,   although   my 

duty  calls  me  hence, 

That    with    the    breach    of   yours    I    will    dis- 
pense. 

Ere  my  return  see  my  commands  you  do: 
Let  me  find  Ozmyn  dead,  and  killed  by  you. — 
Gazul   and   Reduan,    attend  her  still; 
And,  if  she  dares  to  fail,  perform  my  will. 

[Exeunt    SELIN    and    HAMET. 

[BENZAYDA  looks  languishing  on  him,  with 
her  sword  down;  GAZUL  and  REDUAN 
standing  with  drawn  swords  by  her. 

Ozm.    Defer  not,  fair  Benzayda,  my  death: 

Looking    on    you, 

I    should   but   live    to   sigh   away   my   breath. 

My  eyes  have  done  the  work  they  had  to  do: 

I  take  your  image  with  me,  which  they  drew; 

And,  when  they  close,  I  shall  die  full  of  you. 
Bens.     When  parents  their  commands  un- 
justly   lay, 

Children  are  privileged   to  disobey; 

Yet  from  that  breach  of  duty  I  am  clear, 

Since   I   submit   the   penalty   to  bear. 

To   die,   or   kill   you,   is   the   alternative; 

Rather   than   take   your   life,   I   will   not   live. 
Ozm.    This  shows  the  excess  of  generosity; 

But,  madam,  you  have  no  pretence  to  die. 

I   should   defame   the   Abencerrages'   race, 

To  let  a  lady  suffer  in  my  place. 

But    neither   could    that   life,    you    would   be- 
stow, 

Save  mine;  nor  do  you  so  much  pity  owe 

To  me,  a  stranger,  and  your  house's  foe. 
Bens.     From    whencesoe'er    their   hate   our 
houses   drew, 

I  blush  to  tell  you,  I  have  none  for  you. 

'Tis   a  confession   which   I    should   not   make, 

Had  I  more  time  to  give,  or  you  to  take: 

But,    since    death's    near,    and   runs    with    so 
much  force, 

We  must  meet  first,  and  intercept  his  course. 
Ozm.     O,    how    unkind    a    comfort    do    you 
give! 

Now  I  fear  death  again,  and  wish  to  live. 

Life  were  worth  taking,  could  I  have  it  now; 

But    'tis    more    good    than    heaven    can    e'er 
allow 


29 


ACT  IV,  Sc.  II. 


THE  CONQUEST  OF  GRANADA 


To  one  man's  portion,  to  have  life  and  you. 

Bens.     Sure,  at  our  births, 
Death     with     our     meeting     planets     danced 

above, 

Or   we   were   wounded   by   a   mourning   love! 

[Shouts   within. 

Red.     The  noise  returns,  and  doubles  from 

behind; 

It   seems  as   if   two   adverse  armies   joined. — 
Time  presses  us. 

Gaz.  If  longer  you  delay, 

We    must,    though    loth,    your    father's    will 

obey. 
Osm.     Haste,    madam,    to    fulfil    his    hard 

commands, 

And  rescue  me  from  their  ignoble  hands. 
Let    me    kiss    yours,    when    you    my    wound 

begin, 

Then  easy   death  will  slide  with  pleasure  in. 

Bern.     Ah,     gentle     soldiers,     some     short 

time   allow!  [To    GAZ.    and   RED. 

My   father   has   repented  him  ere  now; 

Or  will  repent  him,  when   he  finds  me  dead. 

My    clue    of    life    is    twined    with    Ozmyn's 

thread. 

Red.     'Tis  fatal  to  refuse  her,  or  obey. 
But  where  is  our  excuse  ?  what  can  we  say  ? 

Bern.     Say   anything — 

Say  that  to  kill  the  guiltless  you  were  loth; 
Or  if  you  did,  say  I  would  kill  you  both. 
Gas.     To  disobey  our  orders  is  to  die. — 
I'll  do't:  who  dare  oppose  it? 

Red.  That  dare  I. 

[REDUAN  stands  before  OZMYN,  and  fights 
with  GAZUL.  BENZAYDA  unbinds  OZ- 
MYN, and  gives  him  her  sword. 

Bern.     Stay    not    to    see    the    issue    of    the 

fight;  [RED.  kills  GAZ. 

But  haste  to  save  yourself  by  speedy  flight. 

Ozm.    [kneeling  to  kiss   her  hand].     Did  all 

mankind  against  my  life  conspire, 
Without  this  blessing  I  would  not  retire. 
But,   madam,   can   I   go  and  leave  you   here? 
Your  father's  anger  now   for  you  I   fear: 
Consider,  you   have   done   too   much    to   stay. 
Bern.     Think    not   of   me,   but    fly   yourself 

away. 
Red.     Haste    quickly    hence;    the    enemies 

are    nigh ! 

From  every  part  I   see  our  soldiers  fly. 
The  foes  not  only  our  assailants  beat, 
But  fiercely  sally  out  on  their  retreat, 
And,  like  a  sea  broke  loose,  come  on  amain. 

To    them    ABENAMAR,   and    a   party    with    their 

swords   drawn,   driving  in   some   of 

the  enemies. 

Aben.     Traitors,    you    hope   to    save   your- 
selves in  vain! 

Your  forfeit  lives  shall  for  your  treason  pay; 
And    Ozmyn's    blood   shall   be    revenged   this 
day. 


Ozm.     [kneeling    to    his    father].      No,    sir, 

your  Ozmyn  lives;  and  lives  to  own 
A  father's  piety  to  free  his  son. 

Aben.      [embracing     him"].      My    Ozmyn! — O, 

thou  blessing  of  my  age! 

And  art  thou  safe  from  their  deluded  rage!— 
Whom  must  I  praise  for  thy  deliverance? 
Was   it   thy   valor,    or    the    work    of    chance? 
Osm.     Nor  chance,  nor  valor,  could  deliver 

me; 

But  'twas  a  noble  pity  set  me  free. 
My   liberty,   and  life, 
And   what   your   happiness   you're  pleased   to 

call, 
We  to  this  charming  beauty  owe  it  all. 

Aben.      [to      her].        Instruct      me,      visible 

divinity ! 

Instruct  me  by  what  name  to  worship  thee! 
For  to   thy  virtue  I   would  altars   raise, 
Since  thou  art  much  above  all  human  praise. 
But  see 

Enter  ALMANZOR,  his  sword  bloody,  leading  in 
ALMAHIDE,   attended  by   ESPERANZA. 

My  other  blessing,  Almahide,  is  here! 
I'll  to  the  king,  and  tell  him  she  is  near: 
You,  Ozmyn,  on  your  fair  deliverer  wait, 
And  with  your  private  joys  the  public   cele- 
brate.      [Exeunt   ABEN.,    OZM.,   and    BENZ. 
Aim anc.    .The  work   is  done;   now,   madam, 

you  are  free; 

At   least,   if   I    can    give   you   liberty: 
But    you    have    chains    which    you    yourself 

have  chose; 

And,  O,  that  I  could  free  you  too  from  those! 
But  you   are  free  from  force,   and  have  full 

power 

To  go,  and  kill  my  hopes  and  me,  this  hour. 
I  see,  then,  you  will  go;  but  yet  my  toil 
May   be  rewarded  with   a  looking-while. 
Almah.    .Almanzor  can  from   every   subject 

raise 

New   matter  for  our  wonder   and  his  praise. 
You  bound  and  freed  me;   but  the  difference 

is, 
That    showed    your    valor;    but    your    virtue 

this. 
Almanz.     Madam,     you     praise     a     funeral 

victory, 

At  whose  sad  pomp  the  conqueror  must  die. 
Almah.     Conquest  attends  Almanzor  every- 
where; 

I  am  too  small  a  foe  for  him  to  fear: 
But   heroes   still   must   be   opposed   by   some, 
Or  they  would  want  occasion  to  o'ercome. 
Almanz.     Madam,  I  cannot  on  bare  praises 

live; 

Those  who  abound   in  praises   seldom   give. 
Almah.     While    I    to    all    the    world    your 

worth   make  known, 
May     heaven     reward     the     pity     you     have 

shown ! 
Almanz.      My     love     is     languishing,     and 

starved  to  death; 


30 


THE  CONQUEST  OF  GRANADA 


ACT  IV,  So.  II. 


And  would  you   give  me  charity — in   breath? 
Prayers   are    the    alms   of   churchmen   to   the 

poor: 
They    send    to   heaven's,   but    drive    us   from 

their   door. 

.-11  nwli.     Cease,    cease  a   suit 
So  vain  to  you,  and  troublesome  to  me, 
If  you  will  have  me  think  that  I  am  free. 
If  I  am  yet  a  slave,  my  bonds  I'll  bear; 
But  what  I   cannot   grant,   I   will   not   hear. 
Almans.     You     wonnot     hear!    You     must 

both    hear    and    grant; 

For,   madam,    there's  an   impudence   in   want. 
Almah.     Your    way    is    somewhat    strange 

to  ask  relief; 
You    ask    with    threatening,    like    a    begging 

thief. 

Once  more,  Almanzor,  tell  me,  am  I  free? 
Almans.     Madam,    you    are,    from    all    the 

world, — but   me ! 

But  as  a  pirate,  when  he  frees  the  prize 
He    took    from    friends,    sees    the    rich    mer- 
chandise, 

And,  after  he  has  freed  it,  justly  buys; 
So,  when  I  have  restored  your  liberty — 
But   then,   alas,    I   am   too   poor   to  buy! 
Almah.     Nay,    now    you    use    me    just    as 

pirates  do: 
You  free  me;  but  expect  a  ransom  too. 

Almans.     You've    all    the    freedom    that    a 

prince  can  have; 

But  greatness  cannot  be  without  a  slave. 
A  monarch   never  can   in  private  move, 
But  still   is  haunted  with  officious  love. 
So   small   an   inconvenience   you   may   bear; 
'Tis  all  the  fine  Fate  sets  upon  the  fair. 
Almah.     Yet   princes    may    retire    whene'er 

they    please, 

And  breathe  free  air  from  out  their  palaces: 
They   go   sometimes   unknown,   to  shun  their 

state; 

And  then  'tis  manners  not  to  know  or  wait. 
Almans.     If    not    a    subject,    then    a    ghost 

I'll   be; 
And    from    a    ghost,    you    know,    no    place    is 

free. 

Asleep,  awake,   I'll  haunt  you  everywhere; 
From  my  white  shroud  groan  love  into  your 

ear: 
When    in    your    lover's    arms    you    sleep    at 

night, 

I'll  glide  in  cold  betwixt,  and  seize  my  right: 
And  is't  not  better,  in  your  nuptial  bed, 
To  have  a  living  lover  than  a  dead  ? 

Almah.     I    can    no    longer    bear    to   be    ac- 
cused, 

As  if,  what  I  could  grant  you,  I  refused. 
My  father's  choice  I  never  will  dispute; 
And    he    has    chosen    ere    you    moved    your 

suit. 

You  know  my  case;  if  equal  you  can  be, 
Plead  for  yourself,  and  answer  it  for  me. 
Almanz.     Then,   madam,    in   that  hope   you 

bid  me  live ; 


I  ask  no  more  than  you  may  justly  give: 
But    in    strict    justice    there    may    favor    be. 
And    may    I    hope    that    you    have    that    for 

me? 
Almah.      Why     do     you     thus     my     secret 

thoughts  pursue, 
Which,    known,    hurt   me,    and   cannot  profit 

you? 

Your  knowledge  but  new   troubles  does  pre- 
pare, 
Like    theirs    who    curious    in    their    fortunes 

are. 

To  say,  I  could  with  more  content  be  yours, 
Tempts    you    to    hope;    but    not    that    hope 

assures. 

For  since  the  king  has  right, 
And  favored  by  my  father  in  his  suit, 
It  is  a  blossom  which  can  bear  no  fruit. 
Yet,  if  you  dare  attempt  so  hard  a  task, 
May    you    succeed;    you    have    my    leave    to 

ask. 
Almans.     I     can     with     courage     now     my 

hopes   pursue, 

Since   I   no   longer   have   to   combat   you. 
That    did    the    greatest   difficulty   bring; 
The  rest  are  small,  a  father  and  a  king! 
Almah.     Great  souls  discern  not  when  the 

leap's    too    wide, 

Because  they  only  view  the  farther  side. 
Whatever  you  desire,  you  think  is  near; 
But,  with  more  reason,   the  event   I  fear. 

Almanz.     No;   there  is  a  necessity  in  fate, 
Why   still   the   brave   bold   man  is  fortunate: 
He   keeps   his   object   ever  full   in   sight, 
And  that  assurance  holds  him  firm  and  right. 
True,  'tis  a  narrow  path  that  leads  to  bliss, 
But   right  before   there  is  no   precipice: 
Fear   makes  men   look   aside,   and   then   their 

footing  miss. 
Almah.     I    do   your   merit    all    the    right    I 

can; 

Admiring  virtue   in  a  private  man; 
I   only   wish   the   king   may   grateful   be, 
And  that  my  father  with  my   eyes  may  see. 
Might   I    not   make   it   as   my    last   request, — 
Since     humble     carriage     suits     a     suppliant 

best,— 
That  you  would  somewhat  of  your  fierceness 

hide- 
That  inborn  fire — I  do  not  call  it  pride? 
Almans.     Born,  as  I  am,  still  to  command, 

not  sue, 

Yet   you   shall   see   that   I    can   beg  for   you; 
And  if  your  father  will  require  a  crown, 
Let    him    but    name    the    kingdom,    'tis    his 

own. 

I  am,  but  while  I  please,  a  private  man; 
I  have  that  soul  which  empires   first  began. 
From  the  dull  crowd,  which  every  king  does 

lead, 

I  will  pick  out  whom  I  will  choose  to  head: 
The  best  and  bravest  souls  I  can  select, 
And    on    their    conquered    necks    my    throne 

erect.  [Exeunt. 


31 


ACT  V,  Sc.  II. 


THE  CONQUEST  OF  GRANADA 


ABDALLA     alone, 


ACT  V 

SCENE   I 
under     the 
Albaysin. 


walls     of    the 


Abdal.     While  she  is  mine,  I  have  not  yet 

lost    all, 

But   in    her   arms    shall    have   a    gentle   fall: 
Blest  in   my  love,  although  in  war  o'ercome, 
I   fly,  like   Antony  from   Actium, 
To   meet   a  better  Cleopatra  here. — 
You  of  the  watch !  you  of  the  watch !  appear. 
Sold,    [above].    Who    calls    below?    What's 
your   demand  ? 


Abdal. 


'Tis  I: 


Open    the   gate  with   speed;    the  foe   is   nigh. 
Sold.     What  orders  for  admittance  do  you 

bring  ? 
Abdal.     Slave,    my    own    orders:    look,    and 

know   the  king. 
Sold.     I    know   you;   but   my   charge   is   so 

severe 

That  none,  without  exception,  enter  here. 
Abdal.     Traitor,     and     rebel!     thou     shalt 

shortly  see 
Thy  orders  are  not  to  extend  to  me. 

Lyndar.     [above].    What     saucy     slave     so 

rudely  does  exclaim, 

And  brands  my  subject  •with  a  rebel's  name? 
Abdal.     Dear    Lyndaraxa,    haste;,  the    foes 

pursue. 
Lyndar.     My   lord,    the   Prince   Abdalla,    is 

it   you? 

I   scarcely  can  believe   the  words   I   hear; 
Could  you  so  coarsely  treat  my  officer? 
Abdal.     He    forced  -me;     but     the    danger 

nearer  draws: 
When    I    am    entered,    you    shall    know    the 

cause. 
Lyndar.     Entered!    Why,     have     you     any 

business   here  ? 

Abdal.     I   am  pursued,   the  enemy   is   near. 
Lyndar.     Are    you    pursued,    and    do    you 

thus    delay 
To    save    yourself?    Make    haste,    my    lord, 

away. 
Abdal.     Give    me    not   cause   to    think    you 

mock    my    grief : 

What  place  have   I,  but  this,  for  my   relief? 
Lyndar.     This    favor    does    your    handmaid 

much    oblige, 

But  we  are  not  provided  for  a  siege: 
My   subjects   few;   and    their   provision   thin; 
The  foe  is  strong   without,   we   weak   within. 
This  to  my  noble  lord  may   saem   unkind, 
Bui  he  will  weigh  it  in  his  princely  mind; 
And   pardon    her,    who    does   assurance    want 
So  much,  she  blushes  when  she  cannot  grant. 
Abdal.     Yes,  you  may  blush;  and  you  have 

cause  to  weep. 

Is  this   the  faith  you  promised  me   to  keep? 
Ah  yet,  if  to  a  lover  you  will  bring 
No  succor,  give   your  succor  to   a  king. 


Lyndar.  A  king  is  he,  whom  nothing  can 
withstand; 

Who  men  and  money  can  with  ease  com- 
mand. 

A  king  is  he,  whom  fortune  still  does  bless; 

He  is  a  king,  who  does  a  crown  possess. 

If  you  would  have  me  think  that  you  are  he, 

Produce  to  view  your  marks  of  sovereignty; 

But  if  yourself  alone  for  proof  you  bring, 

You're  but  a  single  person,  not  a  king. 


maid,     did     I     for     this 


Abdal.     Ingrateful 

rebel? 

I  say  no  more;  but  I  have  loved  too  well. 
Lyndar.     Who    but    yourself    did    that    re- 
bellion   move? 

Did  I  e'er  promise  to  receive  your  love? 
Is  it  my  fault  you  are  not  fortunate? 
I  love  a  king,  but  a  poor  rebel  hate. 

Abdal.     Who    follow    fortune,    still    are    in 

the    right; 

But   let  me   be   protected  here   this   night. 
Lyndar.     The  place  to-morrow  will  be  cir- 
cled round; 
And    then    no    way    will    for    your    flight    be 

found. 

Abdal.     I    hear    my    enemies    just    coming 

on;  [Trampling  within. 

Protect  me  but  one  hour,   till  they  are  gone. 

Lyndar.      They'll     know     you     have     been 

here;    it    cannot    be; 

That  very   hour  you  stay,  will  ruin  me: 
For   if  the  foe   behold  our  interview, 
I   shall  be  thought  a  rebel   too,   like  you. 
Haste     hence;     and    that    your     flight     may 

prosperous  prove, 
I'll  recommend  you  to  the  powers  above. 

[Exit  LYND.  from  above. 
Abdal.     She's     gone!       Ah,    faithless     and 

ingrateful  maid! 

I   hear  some  tread;  and  fear   I  am  betrayed. 
I'll   to  the  Spanish   king;   and   try   if  he, 
To    countenance   his    own    right,    will    succor 

me: 
There  is  more  faith  in  Christian  dogs,  than 


thee. 


[Exit. 


SCENE  II 
OZMYN,    BENZAYDA,    ABENAMAR. 

Bens.     I   wish 
(To    merit    all    these    thanks)    I    could    have 

said, 

My  pity  only  did  his  virtue  aid; 
'Twas  pity,  but  'twas  of  a  love-sick  maid. 
His  manly   suffering  my  esteem  did  move; 
That  bred  compassion,  and  compassion   love. 

Ozm.     O  blessing   sold   me  at    too   cheap   a 
rate!  [To   his  father. 

My   danger   was   the  benefit   of   fate. 
But    that  you   may   my   fair   deliverer   know, 
She  was  not  only  born  our  house's  foe, 
But  to  my  death  by  powerful  reasons  led; 
At  least,  in  justice,  she  might  wish  me  dead. 


32 


THE  CONQUEST  OF  GRANADA 


ACT  V,  Sc.  III. 


Abcn.     But     why    thus    long1    do    you    her 

name    conceal  ? 

Ozm.     To   gain   belief   for   what   I    now  re- 
veal: 
Even    thus   prepared,    you    scarce    can    think 

it    true, 

The   saver   of   my   life  from  Selin   drew 
Her  birth;  and  was  his   sister  whom  I   slew. 
Aben.     No  more;  it  cannot,  was  not,  must 

not   be: 

Upon   my   blessing,   say  not  it  was   she. 
The   daughter   of   the   only   man   I    hate! 
Two    contradictions    twisted    in    a    fate! 
Ozm.     The    mutual    hate,    which    you    and 

Selin    bore, 

Does  but   exalt  her  generous  pity  more. 
Could   she   a   brother's   death   forgive   to    me, 
And  cannot  you  forget  her  family? 
Can  you  so  ill  requite  the  life  I  owe, 
To  reckon   her,  who  gave  it,   still  your  foe? 
It  lends   too  great  a  lustre  to  her  line, 
To  let  her  virtue  ours  so  much  outshine. 
Aben.     Thou  giv'st  her  line  the  advantage 

which    they   have, 

By  meanly  taking  of  the  life  they  gave. 
Grant  that  it  did  in  her  a  pity  show; 
But  would  my  son  be  pitied  by  a  foe? 
She  has  the  glory  of  thy  act  defaced: 
Thou  killedst  her  brother;  but  she  triumphs 

last: 

Poorly  for  us  our  enmity  would  cease; 
When  we  are  beaten,  we  receive  a  peace. 
Bens.     If    that    be    all    in    which    you    dis- 
agree, 

I   must   confess   'twas   Ozmyn   conquered  me. 
Had    I    beheld   him    basely    beg   his    life, 
I  should  not  now  submit  to  be  his  wife; 
But  when    I   saw   his   courage   death    control, 
I  paid  a   secret  homage  to   his   soul; 
And  thought  my  cruel  father  much  to  blame, 
Since  Ozmyn's  virtue  his  revenge  did  shame. 
Aben.     What    constancy    canst    thou    e'er 

hope  to  find 

In  that  unstable,  and  soon  conquered  mind? 
What  piety  canst  thou  expect  from  her, 
Who  could  forgive  a  brother's  murderer? 
Or,   what   obedience   hop'st   thou   to   be   paid, 
From  one  who  first  her  father  disobeyed? 
Ozm.     Nature,    that    bids     us     parents     to 

obey, 
Bids     parents     their    commands     by     reason 

weigh; 

And  you  her  virtue  by  your  praise  did  own, 

Before  you  knew  by  whom  the  act  was  done. 

Aben.     Your    reasons    speak    too    much    of 

insolence; 

Her  birth's  a  crime  past  pardon  or  defence. 
Know,   that  as   Selin  was   not  won  by    thee, 
Neither   will   I    by    Selin's   daughter   be. 
Leave    her,    or    cease    henceforth    to    be    my 

son: 
This  is  my  will;   and  this  I  will   have  done. 


Ozm.     It  is  a  murdering  will, 


[Exit   ABEN. 


That   whirls  along  with   an   impetuous   sway, 
And,    like    chain-shot,    sweeps    all    things    in 

its  way. 

He  does  my  honor  want  of  duty  call; 
To    that,   and   love,   he    has   no   right   at   all. 
Bens.     No,   Ozmyn,   no;  it  is   a   much   less 

ill 

To  leave  me,  than  dispute  a  father's  will: 
If  I  had  any   title  to  your  love, 
Your    father's    greater    right    does    mine    re- 
move: 

Your  vows  and  faith  I  give  you  back  again, 
Since  neither  can  be  kept  without  a  sin. 
Ozm.     Nothing    but    death    my    vows    can 

give    me    back: 

They  are  not  yours  to  give,  nor  mine  to  take. 
Bens.     Nay,     think     not,     though     I     could 

your    vows    resign, 

My  love  or  virtue  could  dispense  with  mine. 
I  would  extinguish  your  unlucky  fire, 
To  make  you  happy  in  some  new  desire: 
I   can  preserve  enough  for  me  and  you, 
And  love,   and  be  unfortunate,   for   two. 

Ozm.     In  all  that's  good  and  great 
You  vanquish  me  so  fast,   that   in  the  end 
I   shall  have  nothing  left  me  to  defend.      ' 
From   every   post   you   force   me    to    remove; 
But  let  me  keep  my  last  retrenchment,  love. 
Bens.     Love    then,    my    Ozmyn;    I    will    be 
content  [Giving    her   hand. 

To    make   you   wretched   by    your    own    con- 
sent: 
Live    poor,    despised,    and    banished    for    my 

sake, 

And  all  the  burden  of  my  sorrows  take; 
For,  as  for  me,  in  whatsoe'er  estate, 
While  I   have  you,  I   must  be  fortunate. 
Ozm.     Thus  then,  secured  of  what  we  hold 

most   dear, 
(Each    other's    love)     we'll    go— I    know    not 

where. 

For  where,  alas,  should  we  our  flight  begin? 
The  foe's  without;  our  parents  are  within. 
Bens.     I'll    fly    to   you,    and    you    shall    fly 

to  me; 

Our  flight  but  to  each  other's  arms  shall  be. 
To  providence  and  chance  permit  the  rest; 
Let  us  but  love  enough,  and  we  are  blest. 

[Exeunt. 

SCENE  III 

Enter    BOABDELIN,    ABENAMAR,    ABDELMELECH, 
Guard:  ZULEMA  and  HAMET,   prisoners. 

Abdelm.       They're    Lyndaraxa's    brothers; 

for  her  sake, 

Their   lives  and   pardon   my  request   I   make. 
Boab.     Then,  Zulema  and  Hamet,  live;  but 

know, 

Your  lives  to  Abdelmelech's  suit  you  owe. 
Zul.     The  grace  received  so  much  my  hope 

exceeds 

That  words  come  weak  and  short  to  answer 
deeds. 


33 


ACT  V,  Sc.  III. 


THE  CONQUEST  OF  GRANADA 


You've  made  a  venture,   sir,  and  time  must 

show 

If  this   great  mercy  you  did  well  bestow. 
Boab.     You,  Abdelmelech,  haste  before  'tis 

night, 

And   close  pursue  my   brother  in   his  flight. 
[ILxcunt    ABDELMELECH,    ZULEMA,    HAMET. 

Enter  ALMANZOR,   ALMAHIDE,   and   ESPERANZA. 

But   see,    with    Almahide 

The   brave  Almanzor  comes,  whose  conquer- 
ing sword 

The   crown,    it   once   took   from   me,    has   re- 
stored. 

How  can  I  recompence  so  great  desert! 
Almans.     I    bring    you,    sir,    performed    in 
every    part, 

My    promise    made;    your    foes    are    fled    or 
slain; 

Without  a  rival,  absolute  you  reign. 

Yet   though,  in  justice,  this  enough  may  be, 

It  is  too  little  to  be  done  by  me: 

I  beg  to  go, 

Where    my    own    courage    and    your    fortune 
calls, 

To  chase  these  misbelievers  from  our  walls. 

I    cannot   breathe   within   this   narrow   space; 

My   heart's   too    big,    and   swells   beyond   the 

place. 

Boab.     You    can    perform,    brave    warrior, 
what  you  please; 

Fate  listens  to  your  voice,  and  then  decrees. 

Now  I  no  longer  fear  the  Spanish  powers; 

Already  we  are  free,  and  conquerors. 

Almans.     Accept,    great    king,    to-morrow, 
from   my  hand, 

The   captive   head  of   conquered   Ferdinand. 

You  shall  not  only  what  you  lost  regain, 

But  o'er  the  Biscayn  mountains  to  the  main, 

Extend    your    sway,    where    never    Moor    did 


another,     vanity     would 


reign. 
Aben.    What, 

seem, 

Appears  but  noble  confidence  in  him; 
No  haughty  boasting,  but  a  manly  pride; 
A  soul  too  fiery,  and  too  great  to  guide: 
He    moves    eccentric,    like   a  wandering   star, 
Whose  motion's   just,   though  'tis  not   regu- 
lar. 
Boab.     It  is  for  you,  brave  man,  and  only 

you, 

Greatly   to  speak,   and   yet   more   greatly   do. 
But,  if  your  benefits  too  far  extend, 
I  must  be  left  ungrateful  in  the  end: 
Yet  somewhat  I  would  pay, 
Before    my   debts   above    all   reckoning   grow, 
To  keep  me  from  the  shame  of  what  I   owe. 
But  you 

Are  conscious  to  yourself  of  such  desert, 
That   of  your   gift   I    fear   to   offer   part. 
Almans.     When   I    shall   have    declared   my 
high  request, 


So    much    presumption 

fessed. 


there    will    be    con- 


That  you  will  find  your  gifts  I  do  not  shun, 

But  rather  much   o'er-rate   the  service  done. 

Boab.     Give  wing  to  your  desires,  and  let 

'em    fly, 

Secure  they  cannot  mount  a  pitch  too  high. 
So  bless  me,  Allah,  both  in  peace  and  war, 
As  I  accord  whate'er  your  wishes  are. 

Almans.     Emboldened  by  the  promise  of  a 
prince, 

[Putting  one  knee  on  the  ground. 
I  ask  this  lady  now  with  confidence. 

Boab.     You    ask    the   only    thing   I    cannot 
grant. 
[The  King   and   ABENAMAR   look   amazedly 

on  each  other. 

But,  as  a  stranger,  you  are  ignorant 
Of  what   by   public  fame  my   subjects   know; 
She  is  my  mistress. 

Aben.  — And   my   daughter   too. 

Almans.     Believe,     old    man,     that    I     her 

father  knew: 
What   else    should   make   Almanzor   kneel   to 

you? 
Nor   doubt,    sir,   but   your   right   to   her   was 

known: 

For  had  you  had  no  claim  but  love  alone, 
I  could  produce  a  better  of  my  own. 

Almah.     [softly     to     him].     Almanzor,     you 

forget  my   last  request: 

Your  words  have  too  much  haughtiness   ex- 
pressed. 

Is  this  the  humble  way   you  were   to  move? 
Almans.    [to    her].     I    was    too    far    trans- 
ported by   my   love. 

Forgive  me;  for  I  had  not  learned  to  sue 
To    anything    before,   but    heaven    and    you,— 
Sir,  -at  your  feet,  I  make  it  my  request — 

[To  the  King. 

First  line  kneeling:  second,  rising,  and  boldly. 
Though,  without  boasting,  I  deserve  her 

best; 

For  you  her  love  with  gaudy  titles  sought, 
But  I  her  heart  with  blood  and  dangers 

bought. 
Boab.     The  blood  which  you  have  shed  in 

her  defence 

Shall  have  in   time  a  fitting  recompence: 
Or,  if  you  think  your  services  delayed, 
Name  but  your  price,  and  you  shall  soon  be 

paid. 
Almans.     My    price!     Why,    king,    you    do 

not  think  you  deal 

With  one  who  sets  his  services  to  sale? 
Reserve   your   gifts   for   those   who    gifts   re- 
gard; 

And  know,  I  think  myself  above  reward. 
Boab.     Then   sure  you   are   some   godhead; 

and  our  care 
Must    be    to    come    with    incense    and    with 

prayer. 
Almans.     As    little   as   you    think    yourself 

obliged, 
You    would   be   glad   to   do't,   when   next   be- 


sieged. 


34 


THE  CONQUEST  OF  GRANADA 


ACT  V,  Sc.  III. 


But    I   am   pleased    there    should   be   nothing 

due; 

For  what  I  did  was  for  myself,  not  you. 
Boab.     You  with  contempt  on  meaner  gifts 

look  down; 
And,     aiming     at     my     queen,     disdain     my 

crown. 
That    crown,    restored,    deserves    no    recom- 

pence, 

Since  you  would  rob  the  fairest  jewel  thence. 

Dare   not   henceforth   ungrateful   me    to   call; 

Whate'er  I  owed  you,  this  has  cancelled  all. 

Almanz.     I'll  call  thee  thankless,  king,  and 

perjured  both: 
Thou   swor'st  by   Allah,   and  hast  broke   thy 

oath. 
But  thou  dost  well;  thou  tak'st  the  cheapest 

way; 

Not  to  own  services  thou  canst  not  pay. 
Boab.     My    patience    more    than    pays    thy 

service  past; 

But  know  this  insolence  shall  be  thy  last. 
Hence    from    my    sight!    and    take    it    as    a 

grace, 
Thou   liv'st,   and   art  but   banished  from   the 

place. 
Almanz.     Where'er  I  go,  there  can  no  exile 

be; 

But  from  Almanzor's  sight  I  banish  thee: 
I  will  not  now,  if  thou  wouldst  beg  me,  stay; 
But  I  will  take  my  Almahide  away. 
Stay    thou   with   all    thy    subjects    here;    but 

know, 
We  leave  thy  city  empty  when  we  go. 

[Takes  ALMAHIDE'S  hand. 
Boab.     Fall  on;  take;  kill  the  traitor. 
IT  he  Guards  fall  on  him;  he  makes  at  the 
King    through    the    midst    of    them,    and 
falls   upon    him;    they    disarm   him,   and 
rescue   the   King. 

Almanz.  — Base    and    poor, 

Blush    that    thou   art    Almanzor's    conqueror. 

[ALMAHIDE  wrings   her   hands,    then  turns 

and  veils  her  face. 
Farewell,   my  Almahide ! 
Life  of  itself  will  go,   now   thou  art   gone, 
Like  flies  in  winter,  when  they  lose  the  sun. 
[ABENAMAR    whispers    the    King    a    little, 

then  speaks  alohd. 
Aben.     Revenge,    and    taken    so    secure    a 

way, 
Are  blessings  which  heaven  sends  not  every 

day. 
Boab.     I    will    at   leisure   now   revenge   my 

wrong; 
And,    traitor,   thou    shalt   feel   my   vengeance 

long: 

Thou  shalt  not  die  just  at  thy  own  desire, 
But  see   my   nuptials,   and   with   rage   expire. 
Almans.     Thou  darest  not  marry  her  while 

I'm   in   sight: 
With    a   bent   brow   thy    priest    and    thee   I'll 

fright; 
And  in  that  scene 


Which  all  thy  hopes  and  wishes  should  con- 
tent, 

The    thought    of    me    shall    make    thee    im- 
potent. 

IHe  is  led  off  by  Guards. 
Boab.   [to  ALMAH.].     As  some  fair  tulip,  by 

a  storm  oppressed, 

Shrinks  up,  and  folds  its  silken  arms  to  rest; 
And,  bending  to  the  blast,  all  pale  and  dead, 
Hears  from  within  the  wind  sing  round  its 

head; 

So,  shrouded  up,  your  beauty  disappears: 
Unveil,   my  love,   and  lay  aside  your  fears. 
The  storm  that  caused  your  fright  is  passed 
and  done. 
[ALMAHIDE   unveiling,    and    looking   round 

for  ALMANZOR. 

Almah.     So  flowers  peep  out  too  soon,  and 
miss  the  sun.  [.Turning  from  him. 

Boab.     What  mystery   in   this  strange  be- 
havior lies? 
Almah.     Let  me  for  ever  hide  these  guilty 

eyes 

Which  lighted  my  Almanzor  to  his  tomb; 
Or,  let  'em  blaze,  to  show  me  there  a  room. 
Boab.     Heaven     lent     their     lustre     for     a 

nobler  end; 

A  thousand  torches  must  their  light  attend, 
To  lead  you  to  a  temple  and  a  crown. 
Why   does   my   fairest  Almahida    frown? 
Am   I  less   pleasing   than   I   was  before, 
Or  is  the  insolent  Almanzor  more? 

Almah.     I    justly    own    that    I    some    pity 

have, 

Not  for  the  insolent,  but  for  the  brave. 
Aben.     Though    to    your    king    your    duty 

you   neglect, 

Know,  Almahide,  I  look  for  more  respect: 
And,    if    a    parent's    charge    your    mind    can 

move, 

Receive  the  blessing  of  a  monarch's  love. 
Almah.     Did    he    my    freedom    to    his    life 

prefer, 

And   shall   I  wed   Almanzor's  murderer? 
No,  sir;  I  cannot  to  your  will  submit; 
Your  way's  too  rugged  for  my  tender  feet. 
Aben.     You  must  be  driven  where  you  re- 
fuse to  go; 
And    taught,    by    force,    your    happiness    to 

know. 
Almah.    [smiling  scornfully].     To   force  me, 

sir,   is   much   unworthy   you, 
And,  when  you   would,  impossible  to  do. 
If    force    could    bend    me,    you    might    think, 

with  shame, 
That    I    debased    the    blood    from    whence    I 

came. 

My  soul  is  soft,  which  you  may  gently  lay 
In   your   loose   palm;   but,   when   'tis   pressed 

to  stay, 
Like   water,  it  deludes  your  grasp  and  slips 

away. 

Boab.     I    find    I    must    revoke    what    I    de- 
creed: 


35 


ACT  V,  Sc.  III. 


THE  CONQUEST  OF  GRANADA 


Almanzor's  death  my  nuptials  must  precede. 

Love  is  a  magic  which   the  lover  ties; 

But    charms    still    end    when    the    magician 

dies. 
Go;  let  me  hear  my  hated  rival's  dead; 

ITo  his  Guards. 
And,    to    convince    my    eyes,    bring   back    his 

head. 
Almah.     Go    on:    I    wish    no   other   way    to 

prove 

That  I  am  worthy  of  Almanzor's  love. 
We  will  in  death,  at  least,  united  be: 
I'll  show  you  I  can  die  as  well  as  he. 

Boab.     What   should   I   do!  when   equally   I 

dread 

Almanzor  living  and  Almanzor  dead! — 
Yet,  by  your  promise,  you  are  mine  alone. 
Almah.     How  dare  you  claim  my  faith,  and 

break  your  own? 

Aben.     This  for  your  virtue  is  a  weak  de- 
fence: 

No    second    vows    can    with    your    first    dis- 
pense. 

Yet,   since  the  king  did   to   Almanzor   swear, 
And   in   his  death  ingrateful  may  appear, 
He   ought,   in   justice,  first   to   spare  his  life, 
And  then  to  claim  your  promise  as  his  wife. 
Almah.     Whate'er    my    secret    inclinations 

be, 

To  this,  since  honor  ties  me,  I  agree: 
Yet  I  declare,  and  to  the  world  will  own, 
That,    far    from    seeking,    I    would    shun    the 

throne, 

And  with  Almanzor  lead  a  humble  life: 
There  is  a  private  greatness  in  his  wife. 
Boab.     That    little    love    I    have,    I    hardly 

buy; 

You  give  my  rival  all,  while  you  deny: 
Yet,   Almahide,   to  let  you   see  your  power, 
Your  loved  Almanzor  shall  be  free  this  hour. 
You  are  obeyed;  but  'tis  so  great  a  grace, 
That  I  could  wish  me  in  my  rival's  place. 

[Exeunt  King  and  ABENAMAR. 
Almah.     How  blest  was  I  before  this  fatal 

day, 

When  all  I  knew  of  love,  was  to  obey! 
'Twas  life  becalmed,  without  a  gentle 

breath; 

Though  not  so  cold,  yet  motionless  as  death. 
A  heavy,  quiet  state;  but  love,  all  strife, 
All  rapid,  is  the  hurricane  of  life. 
Had   love    not   shown   me,    I    had    never   seen 
An  excellence  beyond  Boabdelin. 
I   had  not,  aiming  higher,  lost  my   rest; 
But  with  a  vulgar  good  been  dully  blest: 
But,   in   Almanzor,   having   seen   what's   rare, 
Now  I   have  learnt   too  sharply   to  compare; 
And,    like    a    favorite    quickly    in    disgrace, 
Just  know  the  value  ere  I  lose  the  place. 

To    her    ALMANZOR,    bound    and    guarded. 
Almam.     I  see  the  end  for  which  I'm  hither 
sent,  [Looking  down. 

To  double,  by  your  sight,  my  punishment. 


There  is  a  shame  in  bonds  I   cannot  bear; 
Far   more   than    death,    to   meet   your   eyes    I 

fear. 
Almah.     [unbinding    him].     That    shame    of 

long   continuance  shall   not   be: 
The  king,  at  my  entreaty,  sets  you  free. 
Almans.     The   king!    my    wonder's    greater 

than  before; 

How  did  he  dare  my  freedom  to  restore? 
He  like  some  captive  lion  uses  me; 
He  runs  away  before  he  sets  me  free, 
And   takes  a  sanctuary   in  his  court: 
I'll  rather  lose  my  life  than  thank  him  for  't. 
Almah.     If    any    subject    for    your    thanks 

there  be, 

The  king  expects  'em  not;  you  owe  'em  me. 
Our    freedoms    through  'each    other's    hands 

have  passed; 

You  give  me  my  revenge  in  winning  last. 
Alinans.     Then    fate    commodiously    for   me 

has  done; 
To   lose   mine   there   where    I    would    have   it 

won. 

Almah.     Almanzor,   you   too   soon   will   un- 
derstand, 

That   what  I  win   is  on   another's   hand. 
The  king   (who  doomed  you   to  a   cruel  fate) 
Gave    to    my    prayers   both    his    revenge    and 

hate; 

But  at  no  other  price  would  rate  your  life, 
Than  my  consent  and  oath  to  be  his  wife. 
Almanz.     Would  you,   to   save  my   life,   my 

love  betray  ? 

Here;   take  me;  bind  me;  carry  me  away; 
Kill  me!  I'll  kill  you  if  you  disobey. 

[To   the  Guards. 
Almah.     That  absolute  command  your  love 

does    give, 
I    take,    and    charge    you    by    that    power    to 

live. 

Almans.     When    death,    the    last    of    com- 
forts,  you  refuse, 
Your  power,   like   heaven   upon    the   damned, 

you  use; 

You  force  me  in  my  being  to  remain, 
To    make    me    last,    and    keep    me    fresh    for 

pain. 

When  all  my  joys  are  gone, 
What  cause  can   I  for  living  longer  give, 
But  a  dull,  lazy  habitude  to  live? 

Almali.     Rash  men,  like  you,  and  impotent 

of  will, 
Give   Chance  no  time  to  turn,  but   urg^e  her 

still; 

She  would  repent;  you  push  the  quarrel  on, 
And    once    because    she    went,    she    must    be 

gone. 
Almanz.     She    shall    not    turn;    what    is    it 

she  can  do, 

To  recompence  me  for  the  loss  of  you? 
Almah.     Heaven    will    reward    your    worth 

some  better  way: 

At  least,  for  me,  you  have  but  lost  one  day. 
Nor  is't  a  real  loss  which  you  deplore; 


36 


THE  CONQUEST  OF  GRANADA 


ACT  V,  Sc.  III. 


You    sought    a    heart    that    was    engaged    be- 
fore. 
'Twas    a    swift   love    which    took    you    in    his 

way;  • 

Flew  only  through  your  heart,  but  made  no 

stay: 
'Twas   but   a   dream,   where   truth  had  not   a 

place; 

A  scene  of  fancy,  moved  so  swift  a  pace, 
And     shifted,     that     you     can    but    think     it 

was; 

Let,    then,    the    short    vexatious   vision    pass. 
Almans.     My  joys,  indeed,  are  dreams;  but 

not  my  pain: 

'Twas   a   swift   ruin,   but    the    marks    remain. 
When   some  fierce  fire  lays   goodly  buildings 

waste, 

Would  you  conclude 
There   had  been  none,  because  the  burning's 

past? 
Almah.     It  was  your  fault  that  fire  seized 

all    your   breast; 
You  should  have  blown  up  some  to  save  the 

rest: 

But  'tis,  at  worst,  but  so  consumed  by  fire, 
As  cities  are,  that  by  their  falls  rise  higher. 
Build  love  a  nobler   temple  in   my   place*; 
You'll    find    the    fire    has    but    enlarged    your 

space. 
Almans.     Love     has     undone     me;      I     am 

grown  so  poor, 

I   sadly   view  the   ground   I   had  before, 
But    want    a    stock,    and    ne'er    can    build    it 

more. 

Almah.     Then   say   what   charity   I   can  al- 
low; 

I  would  contribute  if  I  knew  but  how. 
Take  friendship;  or,  if  that  too  small  appear, 
Take    love    which    sisters    may    to    brothers 

bear. 
Almans.     A  sister's  love!  that  is  so  palled 

a   thing, 

What  pleasure  can  it  to  a  lover  bring? 
'Tis   like   thin   food   to   men    in   fevers   spent; 
Just  keeps   alive,  but  gives  no  nourishment. 
What  hopes,  what  fears,  what  transports  can 

it  move? 
'Tis  but  the  ghost  of  a  departed  love. 

Almah.     You,  like  some  greedy  cormorant, 

devour 

All   my  whole  life  can  give  you,  in  an  hour. 
What   more    I   can   do   for   you    is    to   die, 
And  that  must  follow,  if  you  this  deny. 
Since    I    gave    up    my   love,    that    you    might 

live, 

You,  in  refusing  life,  my  sentence  give. 
Almans.     Far   from   my   breast   be   such   an 

impious    thought! 
Your   death    would    lose   the    quiet    mine   had 

sought. 

I'll  live  for  you,  in  spite  of  misery; 
But   you   shall    grant    that   I    had   rather   die. 
I'll  be   so  wretched,   filled  with  such  despair, 
That  you  shall  see  to  live  was  more  to  dare. 


Almah.     Adieu,  then,   O  my   soul's  far  bet- 
ter part! 

Your  image  sticks  so  close, 
That    the    blood    follows     from     my    rending 

heart. 

A  last  farewell! 
For,    since   a    last   must    come,    the   rest   are 

vain, 
Like  gasps  in  death,  which  but  prolong  our 

pain. 

But,  since  the  king  is  now  a  part  of  me, 
Cease  from  henceforth  to  be  his  enemy. 
Go  now,  for  pity  go!  for,  if  you  stay, 
I  fear  I  shall  have  something  still  to  say. 
Thus — I    for   ever   shut    you   from    my   sight. 

[Veils. 
Almans.     Like    one    thrust    out    in    a    cold 

winter's  night, 

Yet  shivering  underneath  your  gate   I  stay; 
One  look — I   cannot  go  before  'tis  day. — 

[She  beckons  him  to  be  gone. 
Not    one — Farewell:    Whate'er    my    sufferings 

be 

Within,  I'll  speak  farewell  as  loud  as  she: 
I  will  not  be  outdone  in  constancy. — 

[She   turns   her  back. 
Then  like  a  dying  conqueror  I  go; 
At  least  I  have  looked  last  upon  my  foe. 
I    go — but   if   too   heavily   I   move, 
I  walk  encumbered  with  a  weight  of  love. 
Fain    I   would  leave   the   thought  of   you  be- 
hind, 

But  still,  the  more  I  cast  you  from  my  mind, 

You    dash,    like    water,    back,    when    thrown 

against  the   wind.  [Exit. 

[As  he  goes  off,  the  King  meets  him  with 

ABENAMAR;    they   stare    at    each    other 

without   saluting. 

Boob.     With  him  go  all  my  fears.    A  guard 

there  wait, 
And  see  him  safe  without   the   city  gate. 

To  them  ABDELMELECH. 

Now,  Abdelmelech,  is  my  brother  dead? 
Abdelm.     The     usurper     to     the     Christian 

camp   is  fled; 

Whom  as  Granada's  lawful  king  they  own, 
And  vow,  by  force,  to  seat  him  on  the  throne. 
Meantime  the  rebels  in  the  Albayzin  rest; 
Which  is  in  Lyndaraxa's  name  possessed. 
Boab.     Haste    and    reduce    it    instantly    by 

force. 
Abdelm.     First   give    me   leave   to   prove   a 

milder  course. 
She    will,    perhaps,    on    summons    yield    the 

place. 

Boab.     We  cannot  to  your  suit  refuse  her 
grace. 

[One  enters  hastily,  and  whispers  ABEN- 
AMAR. 
Abcn.     How   fortune  persecutes   this   hoary 

head! 
My  Ozmyn  is  with  Selin's  daughter  fled. 


37 


EPILOGUE 


THE  CONQUEST  OF  GRANADA 


But   he's   no   more   my   son: 

My   hate   shall   like   a  Zegry    him   pursue, 

Till    I    take    back    what    blood    from    me    he 

drew. 

Boab.     Let  war  and  vengeance  be  to-mor- 
row's care; 

But  let  us  to  the  temple  now  repair. 

A  thousand   torches   make  the  mosque  more 
bright: 

This  must  be  mine  and  Almahida's  night. 

Hence,  ye  importunate  affairs  of  state, 

You  should  not   tyrannize  on   love,  but  wait. 

Had    life    no    love,    none    would    for    business 
live; 

Yet  still  from  love  the  largest  part  we  give; 

And  must  be  forced,   in  empire's  weary  toil, 

To  live  long  wretched,  to  be  pleased  a  while. 

[Exeunt. 


EPILOGUE 

Success,  which  can  no  more  than  beauty  last, 
Makes  our  sad  poet  mourn  your  favors  past: 
For,  since  without  desert  he  got  a  name, 
He  fears   to  lose  it  now  with  greater  shame. 
Fame,  like  a  little  mistress   of  the  town, 
Is    gained   with   ease,   but   then   she's   lost  as 

soon: 

For,  as  those  tawdry  misses,  soon  or  late, 
Jilt  such  as  keep  'em  at  the  highest  rate; 
(And  oft  the  lacquey,  or  the  brawny  clown, 
Gets  what  is  hid  in  the  loose-bodied  gown), — 
So,  Fame  is  false  to  all  that  keep  her  long; 
And  turns  up  to  the  fop  that's  brisk  and 

young. 


Some  wiser  poet  now  would  leave  Fame  first; 

But  elder  wits  are,  like  old  lovers,  cursed: 

Who,  when  the  vigor  of  their  youth  is  spent, 

Still  grow  more  fond,  as  they  grow  impotent. 

This,  some  years  hence,  our  poet's  case  may 
prove: 

But  yet,  he  hopes,  he's  young  enough  to 
love. 

When  forty  comes,  if  e'er  he  live  to  see 

That   wretched,   fumbling   age  of  poetry, 

'Twill  be  high  time  to  bid  his  Muse  adieu: 

Well  he  may   please  himself,  but  never  you. 

Till  then,  he'll  do  as  well  as  he  began, 

And  hopes  you  will  not  find  him  less  a  man. 

Think  him  not  duller  for  this  year's  delay; 

He  was  prepared,  the  women  were  away; 

And  men,  without  their  parts,  can  hardly 
play. 

If  they,  through  sickness,  seldom  did  ap- 
pear, 

Pity  the  virgins  of  each   theatre: 

For  at  both  houses  'twas  a  sickly  year! 

And  pity  us,  your  servants,  to  whose  cost, 

In  one  such  sickness,  nine  whole  months  are 
lost. 

Their  stay,  he  fears,  has  ruined  what  he 
writ: 

Long  waiting  both   disables  love  and  wit. 

They  thought  they  gave  him  leisure  to  do 
well; 

But,  when  they  forced  him  to  attend,  he  fell! 

Yet,  though  he  much  has  failed,  he  begs, 
to-day, 

You  will  excuse  his  unperforming  play: 

Weakness  sometimes  great  passion  does  ex- 
press; 

He  had  pleased  better,  had  he  loved  you  less. 


38 


ALL  FOR  LOVE 


THE  Preface  and  Prologue  to  Dryden's  All  for  Love  (1678)  proclaim 
the  passing  of  his  period  of  heroic  plays.  The  versatile  leader  of  Restora- 
tion drama  now  "  fights  unarmed  without  his  rhyme."  ''  His  hero  bates  of 
his  mettle  and  scarce  rants  at  all."  In  his  style  he  professes  to  imitate  the 
divine  Shakspere.  Such  imitations  were  now  common  enough.  Shadwell 
in  Timon  of  Athens,  Ravencroft  in  Titus  Andronicus,  Tate  in  King  Lear, 
Lacy  in  his  version  of  The  Shrew,  Sauny  the  Scot,  had  catered  to  changing 
taste  of  changing  time.  Dryden  himself,  eleven  years  before  (1667),  had 
entered  the  circle  of  Shakspere's  magic  in  company  with  Sir  William  Dave- 
nant,  producing  thus  the  abortive  adaptation  of  The  Tempest  with  its  new 
spawns  of  Caliban's  sister,  Miranda's  male  counterpart  and  another  and 
feminine  Ariel.  During  these  eleven  years  Dryden's  already  large  rever- 
ence for  the  great  Elizabethan  had  increased  to  but  little  this  side  idolatry. 
In  An  Essay  of  Dramatic  Poesy,  printed  in  1668,  he  mingles  with  high 
commendation  free  criticism  of  Shakspere's  wit  and  language.  In  his 
Defense  of  the  Epilogue  which  accompanied  The  Conquest  of  Granada 
(1672),  he  finds  on  every  page  of  Shakspere  and  Fletcher  some  solecism  of 
speech  or  some  notorious  flaw  of  sense  and  recognizes  in  the  greater  of  the 
two  "  a  carelessness  and  a  lethargy  of  thought  for  whole  scenes  together." 
Now  in  the  All  for  Love  Preface  he  marvels  that  "  much  of  his  language 
remains  so  pure."  A  year  later  (1679)  he  again  pays  the  master  the  tribute 
of  imitation  in  his  new-modelling  of  Troilus  and  Cressida,  but  this  alteration 
seems  sheer  anticlimax  after  the  splendid  triumph  of  our  present  play. 

The  ingenious  application  of  "  pseudo-classic  dramatic  rules  to  the 
familiar  subject  of  Antony  and  Cleopatra"  (Noyes)  was  to  Dryden  a  labor 
of  love.  "  I  never  writ  anything  for  myself  but  Antony  and  Cleopatra." 
The  purpose  of  his  version,  aptly  called  All  for  Love,  is  clearly  defined  in 
the  Preface :  "  I  have  endeavored  in  this  play  to  follow  the  practice  of  the 
ancients,  who,  as  Mr.  Rymer  has  judiciously  observed,  are  and  ought  to  be 
our  masters."  "  The  fabric  of  the  play  is  regular  enough,  as  to  the  inferior 
parts  of  it;  and  the  unities  of  time,  place,  and  action  more  exactly  observed 
than  perhaps  the  English  theatre  requires.  Particularly  the  action  is  so 
much  one  that  it  is  the  only  of  the  kind  without  episode  or  underplot; 
every  scene  in  the  tragedy  conducing  to  the  main  design,  and  every  act 
concluding  with  a  turn  of  it." 

It  is,  therefore,  in  Dryden's  classical  concern  for  the  unities  of  place, 

39 


ALL  FOR  LOVE 


time,  and  action,  that  he  first  invites  contrast  with  Shakspere,  whom  he 
regards  as  "  deficient  in  the  mechanic  beauties  of  plot."  Shakspere's  changes 
of  scene — possible  only  on  the  simple  symbolic  platform  of  his  time  and  on 
the  complex  realistic  stage  of  ours — fall  little  short  of  forty.  The  back- 
ground is  almost  as  varied  as  the  Roman  Empire  itself — Rome,  Alexandria, 
Messenum,  Athens,  Pompey's  galley  on  the  high  seas,  the  plains  of  Syria,  the 
promontory  of  Actium.  Dryden  rigidly  limits  the  action  to  the  Egyptian 
capital — the  temple  of  Isis,  and,  perhaps,  the  palace  of  Cleopatra.  Shakspere's 
play  covers  ten  years  of  history,  Dryden's  a  single  crowded  day.  If,  as  has 
been  objected,  the  Restoration  dramatist  runs  counter  to  both  history  and 
probability  in  thus  condensing  events  far  too  spacious  for  his  narrow  time- 
compass,  he  follows  in  such  concentration  much  illustrious  precedent — wit- 
ness the  Agamemnon.  The  action,  too,  has  nought  of  the  epic  breadth  of 
Shakspere's  imperial  theme,  but  is  limited  to  the  crisis  in  the  story  of  the 
royal  lovers.  Antony  and  Cleopatra  is  the  all-embracing  picture  of  an  age 
in  which  the  empire  of  the  world  was  cast  into  the  balance.  All  for  Love 
obscures  this  world-struggle  and  emphasizes  the  merely  personal  aspects  of 
the  oft-told  tale.  Thus  the  most  comprehensive  of  Shakspere's  later  plots 
is  everywhere  narrowed  in  the  interest  of  classical  order  and  restraint. 

To  speak  more  definitely  of  the  technique  of  Dryden's  orderly  drama: 
He  certainly  owes  nothing  to  Appian  and  Dio  Cassius,  of  whom  in  his 
Preface  he  makes  misleading  mention,  and,  save  in  Cleopatra's  death-scene, 
but  little  directly  to  Plutarch.  His  first  four  acts  are  largely  of  his  own 
making,  and  it  is  only  in  his  fifth  that  Shaksperean  allusions  are  plentiful. 
The  conclusion  follows  the  model  rather  closely.  The  finest  passage  in  the 
play — and  here  the  author  and  his  editors  are  in  entire  accord — is  the  scene 
in  the  first  act  between  Antony  and  Ventidius  with  its  faraway  reminiscence 
of  Brutus  and  Cassius  at  half-sword  parley.  And  yet  it  is  here  that  we 
encounter  the  most  inapt  of  all  Dryden's  liftings,  when,  for  the  sake  of  a 
few  melodious  lines,  he  metamorphoses  Antony  into  Jaques,  the  malcontent 
of  Arden.  Something  of  Shakspere's  power  is  caught  in  the  noble  scene  in 
which  Cleopatra  dons  crown  and  jewels  before  her  death.  But  the  incident 
which  has  occasioned  largest  debate  is  the  meeting  between  Octavia  and 
Cleopatra.  Some  deem  it  a  regular  scolding  match,  "  tw/>  pea-hens  in  a 
passion,"  and  declare  that  "  Shakspere  would  never  have  opposed  the  capti- 
vating, brilliant  and  meretricious  Cleopatra  to  the  noble  and  chaste  Octavia." 
On  the  other  hand  Furness  praises  the  dignity  of  the  scene  and  Churton 
Collins  regards  it  as  perhaps  finer  than  anything  which  the  stage  had  seen 
since  Massinger.  Certainly,  a  comparison  between  this  scene  and  the 
"  heroic  "  treatment  of  a  very  similar  situation  in  The  Rival  Queens  by  Nat 
Lee  invites  only  admiration  for  Dryden's  self-restraint.  In  the  author's  own 
discussion  of  the  mooted  passage,  he  places  himself  frankly  on  the  side 
of  illicit  love.  "  I  had  not  enough  considered,"  he  writes  in  his  Preface, 
"that  the  compassion  she  [Octavia]  moved  to  herself  and  children  was 

40 


ALL  FOR  LOVE 


destructive  to  that  which  I  reserved  for  Antony  and  Cleopatra,  whose  mutual 
love  being  founded  upon  vice  must  lessen  the  favor  of  the  audience  to  them 
when  virtue  and  innocence  were  oppressed  by  it."  Here  in  art  as  in  ethics 
the  caterer  to  depraved  Restoration  palates  is  guilty  of  as  great  an  error 
as  Keats  in  his  Lamia.  The  moral  topsey-turveydom  of  the  drama  is  ap- 
parent not  in  this  single  scene  in  which  our  sympathies  are  unwittingly 
diverted  to  the  side  of  right,  but  in  all  the  others  in  which  our  bias  leans 
rather  to  the  side  of  wrong.  Not  undeserved  by  Dryden  was  Lowell's  cen- 
sure: "He  who  .was  of  a  stature  to  snatch  the  torch  of  life  that  flashes 
from  lifted  hand  to  hand  along  the  generations  over  the  heads  of  inferior 
men  chose  rather  to  be  a  link-boy  to  the  stews." 

With  the  severest  criticism  directed  against  All  for  Love  that  the  strug- 
gle is  over  as  Antony  is  already  lost,  and  that  hence  the  action  is  narrative 
rather  than  dramatic  the  present  editors  cannot  agree.  The  struggle  is  not 
over.  Antony's  better  angel,  Ventidius,  has  power  over  him  yet,  and  at  the 
end  of  the  first  act  wins  him  for  a  while  from  his  allegiance  to  Cleopatra. 
Then  the  Queen,  through  the  force  of  her  charms,  wins  him  back.  But  her 
final  victory  is  not  yet  gained,  for  the  hero's  wife  and  children  so  appeal 
to  his  heart  that  they  lose  him  at  last  only  through  a  strategic  mistake,  which, 
by  inflaming  his  jealousy,  fans  his  passion  for  the  Egyptian.  Thus  through- 
out the  drama — and  the  theme  is  essentially  dramatic — the  forces  of  good 
and  of  ill  wage  doubtful  battle  for  possession  of  the  hero.  All  this  is 
surely  not  "  episodic,"  but  shows  the  highest  constructive  skill.  Until  the 
final  act  all  is  not  lost. 

Chiefly  in  the  persons  of  the  drama  is  Dryden's  inferiority  to  his  model 
palpably  revealed.  The  limitation  of  time  to  the  protagonists'  last  day,  in 
accord  with  the  conventional  compass  of  pseudo-classic  tragedy,  is  responsible 
for  the  changed  conception  of  Antony : — now  no  longer  a  Colossus  astride 
the  Roman  world,  but  a  bankrupt  of  fortune  and  honor,  penned  in  a 
corner;  no  more  an  imperial-minded  captain  swayed  by  convulsive  passions 
that  shake  the  wide  earth,  but  a  broken  voluptuary,  a  "  sighing  swain  of 
Arcadia,"  a  victim  struggling  in  the  snare  of  sentimental  infatuation;  not 
an  eager-hearted  Antony,  splendid  master  of  opportunity,  but  an  Antony  in 
the  fell  clutch  of  circumstance,  whose  wavering  spirit  yields  to  weakness  in 
its  final  hour  and  hence  forfeits  all.  And  Cleopatra — "  every  man's  Cleo- 
patra"? Every  man's  but  Shakspere's !  What  age  and  custom  could  not 
inflict  upon  the  rare  Egyptian  has  been  wrought  by  Dryden  at  the  dictation 
of  contemporary  "  heroic "  convention.  Her  infinite  variety  is  staled  in 
response  to  critic  Rymer's  preposterous  decree  that  "  Tragedy  cannot  rep- 
resent a  woman,  without  modesty  as  natural  and  essential  to  her."  And  so 
"  the  serpent  of  old  Nile  "  suffers  change  to 

"  A  silly,  harmless,  household  dove, 
Fond  without  art,  and  kind  without  deceit." 

41 


ALL  FOR  LOVE 


Of  all  the  clashing  elements  that  compose  that  "  wonderful  piece  of  work," 
charm,  cruelty,  caprice,  wit,  wiles,  fierce  fickleness,  and  tender  faith,  only  the 
last  abides  in  the  stock  heroine  of  Restoration  drama,  the  fond  maiden  who 
vaunts  a  whole  life's  truth.  "  Cleopatra  is  wretched,"  says  Churton  Collins 
bluntly  of  Dryden's  ideal  queen;  and  the  critics  dazzled  by  her  brilliant 
prototype  concur. 

Sir  Walter  Scott,  always  very  kind  to  our  drama,  declares  that  "  the  in- 
ferior characters  are  better  supported  in  Dryden  than  in  Shakspere."  A 
just  claim  perhaps,  as  the  earlier  tragedy  offers  no  mates  to  Ventidius,  Alexas, 
and  Dolabella.  But  Scott's  praise  of  the  omission  of  "  low  buffoonery  as  in 
Ehobarbus"  awakes  no  echo,  as  that  worldly  wis'e  cynic  in  his  double  role 
of  foil  and  chorus  is  such  a  favorite  with  many  that  nothing  in  Dryden 
compensates  us  for  his  absence.  That  the  later  Octavia  is  "  cold,  selfish,  and 
unamiable "  few  will  deny  who  view  her  only  as  Cleopatra's  rival.  In  the 
more  gracious  role  of  wife  and  mother,  she  is  tender  and  forgiving. 

A  word  or  two  now  of  Dryden's  style.  The  noble  blank  verse  of  All 
for  Love  confesses  a  double  influence :  the  inspiration  of  the  organic  meter 
of  Shakspere's  ripest  period,  when  meaning  and  movement  are  in  perfect 
harmony ;  and  the  restraint  imposed  upon  Dryden  by  fourteen  years  of  rime. 
Hence  springs  a  rhythm  full  free  and  yet  severe,  contrasting  loftily  with 
the  loose  unrimed  verse  of  his  own  comedies  and  the  blank  iambics  of  the 
weaker  romantic  dramatists.  Dryden's  language  in  his  greatest  play  is  sig- 
nally energetic  and  sonorous — revealing  a  rotundity  of  utterance  that  is  never 
more  splendidly  effective  than  in  the  opening  speeches  of  Serapion.  Here 
and  often  elsewhere  we  are  reminded  of  Gray's  description  of  Dryden's 
ethereal  coursers, — "  with  necks  in  thunder  clothed  and  long-resounding 
pace."  Sometimes  significant  phrasings  smack  of  invasions  into  Shakspere's 
plays  other  than  the  immediate  model.  "  I  hope  I  may  affirm  and  without 
vanity,  that  by  imitating  him,  I  have  excelled  myself  throughout  the  play." 

Perhaps  the  chief  distinction  of  All  for  Love  is  its  illustrious  stage- 
history.  It  crowded  from  the  boards  its  nobler  original  for#iftore  than  a 
century.  During  this  period  Antony  was  presented  by  such  actors  as  Hart, 
Betterton,  Booth,  and  Kemble,  and  Cleopatra  by  Mrs.  Barry,  Nance  Oldfield, 
Peg  Woffington,  and  Mrs.  Siddons.  Dryden's  drama  was  played  in  \Phila- 
delphia  in  1767  and  in  New  York  in  1768.  Since  its  revival  at  Bath  by 
Conway  in  1818,  All  for  Love  has  disappeared  from  the  stage. 


42 


ALL  FOR  LOVE 


ALL  FOR  LOVE 

OR 

THE  WORLD  WELL  LOST 

A  Tragedy 

PROLOGUE 

What  flocks  of  critics  hover  here  to-day, 

As  vultures  wait  on  armies  for  their  prey, 

All  gaping  for  the  carcase  of  a  play! 

With  croaking  notes  they  bode  some  dire  event, 

And  follow  dying  poets  by  the  scent. 

Ours  gives  himself  for  gone;  y'  have  watched  your  time: 

He  fights  this  day  unarmed, — without  his  rhyme; — 

And  brings  a  tale  which  often  has  been  told ; 

As  sad  as  Dido's ;  and  almost  as  old. 

His  hero,  whom  you  wits  his  bully  call, 

Bates  of  his  mettle,  and  scarce  rants  at  all : 

He's  somewhat  lewd;  but  a  well-meaning  mind; 

Weeps  much ;  fights  little ;  but  is  wondrous  kind. 

In  short,  a  pattern,  and  companion  fit, 

For  all  the  keeping  Tonics  of  the  pit. 

I  could  name  more:  a  wife,  and  mistress  too; 

Both  (to  be  plain)  too  good  for  most  of  you: 

The  wife  well-natured,  and  the  mistress  true. 

Now,  poets,  if  your  fame  has  been  his  care, 

Allow  him  all  the  candor  you  can  spare. 

A  brave  man  scorns  to  quarrel  once  a-day; 

Like  Hectors  in  at  every  petty  fray. 

Let  those  find  fault  whose  wit's  so  very  small, 

They've  need  to  show  that  they  can  think  at  all; 

Errors,  like  straws,  upon  the  surface  flow ; 

He  who  would  search  for  pearls,  must  dive  below. 

Fops  may  have  leave  to  level  all  they  can ; 

As  pigmies  would  be  glad  to  lop  a  man. 

Half-wits  are  fleas ;  so  little  and  so  light, 

We  scarce  could  know  they  live,  but  that  they  bite. 

But,  as  the  rich,  when  tired  with  daily  feasts, 

For  change,  become  their  next  poor  tenant's  guests; 

43 


ACT  1,  Sc.  I. 


ALL  FOR  LOVE 


Drink  hearty  draughts  of  ale  from  plain  brown  bowls, 
And  snatch  the  homely  rasher  from  the  coals : 
So  you,  retiring  from  much  better  cheer, 
For  once,  may  venture  to  do  penance  here. 
And  since  that  plenteous  autumn  now  is  past, 
Whose  grapes  and  peaches  have  indulged  your  taste, 
Take  in  good  part,  from  our  poor  poet's  board, 
Such  rivelled  fruits  as  winter  can  afford. 


DRAMATIS  PERSONS 


MARK  ANTONY. 
VENTIDIUS,    his   General. 
DOLABELLA,  his  Friend. 
ALEXAS,   the   Queen's  Eunuch. 
SERAPION,    Priest    of   Isis. 
MYRIS,  another  Priest. 


Servants  to  Antony. 
CLEOPATRA,    Queen    of  Egypt. 
OCTAVIA,    Antony's   Wife. 

CHARMION,  I  .~,     .    .     ,      ,,   . , 
,  '  >  Cleopatra  s   Maids. 

Antony's   two   little  Daughters. 


SCENE. — ALEXANDRIA. 


ACT  I 

SCENE  I. — The  Temple  of  Isis. 
Enter  SERAPION,  MYRIS,  Priests  of  Isis. 

Serap.     Portents   and   prodigies   are   grown 

so  frequent, 

That  they  have  lost  their  name.     Our  fruit- 
ful Nile 

Flowed  ere  the  wonted  season,  with  a  torrent 
So  unexpected,  and  so   wondrous  fierce, 
That   the  wild  deluge  overtook  the   haste 
Even  of  the  hinds  that  watched  it;  men  and 

beasts 
Were    borne    above    the    tops    of    trees,    that 

grew 

On   the  utmost  margin   of  the  water-mark. 
Then,   with   so   swift   an   ebb   the   flood   drove 

backward, 

It  slipt  from  underneath  the  scaly  herd: 
Here  monstrous  phocae  panted  on  the  shore; 
Forsaken    dolphins    there    with    their    broad 

tails, 
Lay    lashing    the    departing    waves:    hard    by 

'em, 

Sea  horses  floundering  in  the  slimy  mud, 
Tossed   up   their  heads,  and  dashed   the  ooze 

about  'em. 

Enter  ALEXAS  behind  them. 

Myr.     Avert  these  omens,  Heaven ! 

Serap.     Last   night,   between    the    hours    of 

twelve  and  one, 

In  a  lone  aisle  of  the  temple  while  I  walked, 
A  whirlwind  rose,  that,  with  a  violent  blast, 
Shook    all    the    dome:    the    doors    around    me 
clapt; 


The  iron  wicket,  that  defends  the  vault, 
Where  the  long  race  of  Ptolemies  is  laid, 
Burst  open,   and   disclosed   the  mighty   dead. 
From    out   each   monument,    in    order   placed, 
An  armed  ghost  starts  up:  the  boy-king  last 
Reared  his  inglorious  head.    A  peal  of  groans 
Then  followed,  and  a  lamentable  voice 
Cried,   "  Egypt  is  no  more !  "     My  blood  ran 

back, 
My      shaking      knees      against      each      other 

knocked; 

On  the  cold  pavement  down  I  fell  entranced, 
And  so  unfinished  left  the  horrid  scene. 

Alex,  [showing  himself}.     And  dreamed  you 

this?  or  did  invent  the  story, 
To  frighten  our  Egyptian  boys  withal, 
And  train  'em  up,  betimes,  in  fear  of  priest- 
hood? 

Serap.     My  lord,  I  saw  you  not, 
Nor  meant  my  words  should  reach  your  ears; 

but  what 
I  uttered  was  most  true. 

Alex.  A  foolish  dream, 

Bred   from   the   fumes   of  indigested   feasts, 
And  holy  luxury. 

Serap.  I  know  my  duty: 

This  goes  no  farther. 

Alex.  'Tis  not  fit  it  should; 

Nor   would    the    times    now   bear   it,   were    it 

true. 
AH      southern,    from    yon    hills,    the    Roman 

camp 
Hangs  o'er  us  black  and  threatening,  like   a 

storm 
Just  breaking  on  our  heads. 

Serap.     Our  faint   Egyptians   pray  for  An- 
tony; 


44 


ALL  FOR  LOVE 


ACT  I,  Sc.  I. 


But   in   their   servile   hearts   they  own   Octa- 

vius. 
Myr.     Why   then   does    Antony    dream   out 

his   hours, 

And  tempts  not  fortune  for  a  noble  day, 
Which  might  redeem   what  Actium   lost? 
Alex.     He    thinks    'tis   past   recovery. 
Serap.  Yet  the  foe 

Seems  not  to  press   the  siege. 

Alex.  Oh,  there's  the  wonder. 

Maecenas  and  Agrippa,  who  can  most 
With  Caesar,  are  his  foes.     His  wife  Octavia, 
Driven  from   his  house,  solicits  her  revenge; 
And  Dolabella,  who  was  once  his  friend, 
Upon    some    private    grudge,    now    seeks    his 

ruin: 

Yet  still  war  seems  on   either  side  to  sleep. 
Serap.     'Tis     strange      that     Antony,      for 

some  days  past, 

Has  not  beheld  the  face  of  Cleopatra; 
But   here,   in   Isis'   temple,    lives   retired, 
And    makes    his    heart    a    prey    to    black    de- 
spair. 
Alex.     'Tis    true;    and    we    much    fear    he 

hopes  by  absence 
To  cure  his  mind  of  love. 

Serap.  If   he   be   vanquished, 

Or  make   his  peace,    Egypt  is   doomed   to   be 
A   Roman  province;   and  our  plenteous   har- 
vests 
Must    then    redeem    the    scarceness    of    their 

soil. 

While  Antony  stood  firm,  our  Alexandria 
Rivalled  proud  Rome  (dominion's  other  seat), 
And   Fortune   striding,   like   a  vast   Colossus, 
Could  fix  an  equal  foot  of  empire  here. 
Alex.     Had  I  my  wish,  these  tyrants  of  all 

nature, 
Who   lord   it   o'er   mankind,    should   perish, — 

perish, 
Each   by   the   other's    sword;   but,    since   our 

will 

Is   lamely   followed    by   our   power,   we   must 
Depend  on  one;  with   him  to  rise  or  fall. 
Serap.     How   stands    the   queen   affected? 
Alex.  O,  she  dotes, 

She     dotes,     Serapion,     on     this     vanquished 

man, 

And  winds  herself  about  his  mighty  ruins; 
Whom  would  she  yet  forsake,  yet  yield  him 

up, 

This  hunted  prey,  to  his  pursuer's  hands, 
She  might  preserve  us  all;  but  'tis  in  vain— 
This  changes  my  designs,  this  blasts  my 

counsels, 
And   makes   me   use   all   means   to   keep   him 

here, 

Whom  I  could  wish  divided  from  her  arms, 
Far  as  the  earth's  deep  centre.  Well,  you 

know 
The    state    of    things;    no    more    of    your    ill 

omens 

And   black   prognostics;    labor    to   confirm 
The  people's  hearts. 


Enter  VENTIDIUS,  talking  aside  with  a  Gentle- 
man   of   ANTONY'S. 

Serap.     These  Romans  will  o'erhear  us. 
But,   who's   that    stranger?     By    his    warlike 

port, 

His    fierce    demeanor,   and   erected    look, 
He's  of  no   vulgar  note. 

Alex.  Oh  'tis   Ventidius, 

Our  emperor's  great  lieutenant  in  the  East, 
Who  first  showed  Rome  that  Parthia  could 

be    conquered. 

When    Antony    returned    from    Syria    last, 
He     left     this     man     to     guard     the     Roman 

frontiers. 

Serap.     You  seem  to  know  him   well. 
Alex.     Too  well.    I  saw  him  at  Cilicia  first, 
When    Cleopatra    there    met   Antony: 
A  mortal  foe  he  was  to  us,  and  Egypt. 
But, — let   me  witness   to   the   worth   I   hate, — 
A  braver  Roman   never  drew  a  sword; 
Firm  to  his  prince,  but  as  a  friend,  not  slave. 
He  ne'er  was   of   his  pleasures;   but  presides 
O'er  all  his  cooler  hours,  and  morning  coun- 
sels: 
In    short    the    plainness,    fierceness,    rugged 

virtue, 

Of   an   old   true-stampt  Roman   lives   in   him. 
His  coming  bodes  I  know  not  what  of  ill 
To  our  affairs.    Withdraw,  to  mark  him  bet- 
ter; 

And  I'll  acquaint  you  why  I  sought  you  here, 
And  what's  our  present  work. 

[They  withdraw  to  a  corner  of  the  stage; 
and  VENTIDIUS,  with  the  other,  comes 
forward  to  the  front. 

Vent.  Not  see  him,  say  you? 

I  say,  I  must,  and  will. 

Gent.  •  He  has  commanded, 

On  pain  of  death,   none  should  approach  his 

presence. 
Vent.     I    bring    him    news    will    raise    his 

drooping  spirits* 
Give  him  new    ife. 

Gent.  He  sees  not  Cleopatra. 

Vent.     Would    he   had    never   seen    her! 
Gent.     He  eats  not,  drinks  not,  sleeps  not, 

has  no  use 

Of  anything,  but  thought;  or,  if  he  talks, 
'Tis  to  himself,  and  then  'tis  perfect  raving: 
Then  he  defies  the  world,  and  bids  it  pass; 
Sometimes     he     gnaws     his    lip,     and    curses 

loud 

The  boy  Octavius;  then  he  draws  his  mouth 
Into  a  scornful  smile,  and  cries,  "  Take  all, 
The  world's  not  worth  my  care." 

Vent.  Just,   just  his  nature. 

Virtue's    his    path;    but    sometimes    'tis    too 

narrow 
For    his    vast    soul;    and    then   he   starts    out 

wide. 

And  bounds   into  a   vice,   that   bears   him  far 
From    his   first    course,   and   plunges    him   in 
ills: 


45 


ACT  I,  Sc.  I. 


ALL  FOR  LOVE 


But,    when    his    danger    makes    him    find   his 

fault, 

Quick  to  observe,  and  full  of  sharp  remorse, 
He  censures  eagerly   his  own  misdeeds, 
Judging   himself  with  malice  to  himself, 
And  not  forgiving  what  as  man   he  did, 
Because  his  other  parts  are  more  than  man. 
He  must  not  thus  be  lost. 

[.\LEXAS  and  the  Priests  come  forward. 
Alex.     You    have    your    full    instructions, 

now  advance; 
Proclaim  your  orders  loudly. 

Serap.      Romans,      Egyptians,      hear      the 

queen's   command. 

Thus   Cleopatra   bids:    "  Let  labor  cease; 
To  pomp  and  triumphs  give  this  happy  day, 
That  gave  the  world  a  lord:  'tis  Antony's." 
Live,    Antony;    and    Cleopatra    live! 
Be  this  the  general  voice  sent  up  to  heaven, 
And   every  public  place  repeat  this  echo. 
Vent,   [aside].     Fine  pageantry! 
Serap.  Set  out  before  your  doors 

The  images  of  all  your  sleeping  fathers, 
With   laurels   crowned;   with  laurels   wreathe 

your  posts, 
And    strew   with    flowers    the    pavement;    let 

the  priests 

Do  present  sacrifice;  pour  out  the  wine, 
And  call  the  gods  to  join  with  you  in  glad- 
ness. 
Vent.     Curse  on  the  tongue  that  bids  this 

general  joy! 

Can  they  be  friends  of  Antony,  who  revel 
When      Antony's      in      danger?        Hide,    for 

shame, 

You  Romans,  your  great  grandsires'  images, 
For  fear  their  souls  should  animate  their 

marbles, 
To  blush  at  their  degenerate  progeny. 

Alex.     A  love,  which  knows  no  bounds,  to 

Antony, 
Would  mark  the  day  with  honors,   when  all 

heaven 

Labored  for  him,  when  each  propitious  star 
Stood  wakeful  in  his  orb,  to  watch  that  hour, 
And  shed  his  better  influence.  Her  own 

birthday 

Our  queen  neglected  like  a  vulgar  fate, 
That  passed  obscurely  by. 

Vent.  Would  it  had  slept, 

Divided  far  from  his;  till  some  remote 
And  future  age  had  called  it  out,  to  ruin 
Some  other  prince,  not  him ! 

Alex.  Your    emperor. 

Though  grown  unkind,  would  be  more  gentle, 

than 

To  upbraid  my  queen  for  loving  him  too  well. 
Vent.     Does     the    mute     sacrifice     upbraid 

the  priest? 

He   knows  him   not  his   executioner. 
Oh,  she  has  decked  his  ruin  with  her  love, 
Led  him  in  golden  bands  to  gaudy  slaughter, 
And    made    perdition    pleasing;    she   has    left 
him 


The  blank  of  what  he  was. 

I  tell  thee,  eunuch,  she  has  quite  unmanned 

him. 

Can  any  Roman  see,  and  know  him  now, 
Thus  altered  from   the  lord  of  half  mankind, 
Unbent,  unsinewed,  made  a  woman's  toy, 
Shrunk    from    the    vast    extent    of    all    his 

honors, 

And  crampt  within  a  corner  of  the  world? 
O  Antony! 
Thou     bravest     soldier,     and     thou     best    of 

friends ! 

Bounteous  as  nature;  next  to  nature's  God! 
Couldst  thou  but  make  new  worlds,  so 

wouldst  thou  give  'em, 

As  bounty   were  thy  being:   rough   in  battle, 
As  the  first  Romans  when  they  went  to  war; 
Yet,  after  victory,  more  pitiful 
Than  all  their  praying  virgins  left  at  home! 
Alex.     Would     you     could     add,     to     those 

more  shining  virtues, 
His  truth  to  her  who  loves  him. 

Vent.  Would  I  could  not! 

But   wherefore  waste   I   precious   hours   with 

thee! 

Thou  art  her  darling  mischief,  her  chief  en- 
gine, 

Antony's  other  fate.    Go,  tell  thy  queen, 
Ventidius  is  arrived,   to  end  her  charms. 
Let  your  Egyptian   timbrels  play  alone, 
Nor    mix     effeminate     sounds     with     Roman 

trumpets. 

You  dare  not  fight   for  Antony;   go  pray 
And  keep  your  cowards'  holiday  in   temples. 
[Exeunt  ALEXAS,    SERAPION. 

Enter  a  second  Gentleman  of  M.  ANTONY. 

2  Gent.     The      emperor      approaches,      and 

commands, 

On  pain  of  death,  that  none  presume  to  stay, 
i   Gent.     I  dare  not  disobey  him. 

[Going  out  with   the   other. 

Vent.  Well,  I   dare. 

But   I'll   observe  him  first   unseen,    and  find 

Which    way    his    humor   drives:    the   rest   I'll 

venture.  [  With  draws. 

Enter     ANTONY,     walking     with     a     disturbed 

motion  before  he  speaks. 

Ant.     They  tell  me,  'tis  my  birthday,  and 

I'll  keep  it 

With  double  pomp  of  sadness. 
'Tis   what  the   day  deserves,   which   gave  me 

breath. 

Why  was  I  raised  the  meteor  of  the  world, 
Hung  in  the  skies,  and  blazing  as  I  travelled, 
Till  all  my  fires  were  spent;  and  then  cast 

downward, 
To  be  trod  out  by  Caesar? 

Vent,    [aside].  On   my   soul, 

'Tis  mournful,  wondrous  mournful! 

A  tit.  Count  thy  gains. 

Now,     Antony,     wouldst    thou    be    born    for 

this? 


ALL  FOR  LOVE 


ACT  I,  Sc.  I. 


Glutton  of  fortune,  thy  devouring  youth 
Has  starved  thy  wanting  age. 

Vent,  [aside].     How  sorrow  shakes  him! 
So,    now   the    tempest    tears   him  up   by   the 

roots, 

And  on  the  ground  extends  the  noble  ruin. 
Ant.     [having    thrown    himself    down].     Lie 

there,  thou  shadow  of  an  emperor; 
The  place  thou  pressest  on  thy  mother  earth 
Is  all  thy  empire  now:  now  it  contains  thee; 
Some  few  days  hence,  and  then  'twill  be  too 

large, 

When  thou'rt  contracted  in  thy  narrow  urn, 
Shrunk  to  a  few  cold  ashes;  then  Octavia 
(For   Cleopatra   will   not  live   to   see  it), 
Octavia  then  will  have  thee  all  her  own, 
And    bear    thee    in    her    widowed    hand    to 

Caesar; 

Caesar  will  weep,  the  crocodile  will  weep, 
To  see  his  rival  of  the  universe 
Lie    still    and    peaceful    there.    I'll    think    no 

more  on't. 

Give  me  some  music:  look  that  it  be  sad: 
I'll   soothe   my  melancholy,  till  I   swell, 
And    burst    myself   with    sighing. — 

[Soft   music. 

'Tis   somewhat   to   my   humor:    stay,   I   fancy 
I'm  now  turned  wild,  a  commoner  of  nature, 
Of   all   forsaken,   and  forsaking   all; 
Live  in   a  shady   forest's    sylvan   scene, 
Stretched  at  my  length  beneath  some  blasted 

oak, 

I  lean  my  head  upon  the  mossy  bark, 
And  look  just  of  a  piece  as  I  grew  from  it; 
My    uncombed   locks,   matted   like   mistletoe, 
Hang    o'er    my    hoary    face;    a    murm'ring 

brook 
Runs  at   my  foot. 

Vent.  Methinks   I    fancy 

Myself  there  too. 

Ant.  The  herd  come  jumping  by  me, 

And,    fearless,    quench    their    thirst,    while    I 

look  on, 

And  take  me  for  their  fellow-citizen. 
More     of    this    image,    more;     it    lulls     my 
thoughts.  [Soft  music  again. 

Vent.     I  must  disturb  him;  I  can  hold  no 
longer.  [Stands  before  him. 

Ant.  [starting  up}.    Art  thou  Ventidius? 
Vent.  Are  you  Antony? 

I'm  liker  what  I  was,  than  you  to  him 
I  left  you  last. 

Ant.  I'm    angry. 

Vent.  So  am   I. 

Ant.     I   would   be   private:    leave    me. 
Vent.  Sir,  I  love  you, 

And  therefore  will  not  leave  you. 

Ant.  Will  not  leave  me! 

Where   have  you  learnt   that  answer?     Who 

am  I? 
Vent.     My   emperor;   the  man    I   love  next 

heaven ; 

If  I  said  more,  I  think  'twere  scarce  a  sin; 
You're  all  that's  good,  and  god-like. 


Ant.  All  that's  wretched. 

You  will  not  leave  me  then? 

Vent.  'Twas  too  presuming 

To   say   I   would   not;   but    I    dare   not   leave 

you: 

And,  'tis  unkind  in  you  to  chide  me  hence 
So    soon,    when    I    so    far   have    come    to    see 

you. 
Ant.     Now    thou    hast    seen    me,    art    thou 

satisfied? 

For,   if  a  friend,  thou  hast  beheld  enough; 
And,   if   a  foe,   too   much. 

Vent,    [weeping].    Look,    emperor,    this    is 

no  common  dew. 

I  have  not  wept  this  forty  year;  but  now 
My  mother  comes  afresh  into  my  eyes; 
I    cannot    help   her   softness. 

Ant.     By  heaven,  he  weeps!  poor  good  old 

man,   he   weeps! 
The    big    round    drops    course    one    another 

down 

The  furrows  of   his   cheeks.    Stop   'em,   Ven- 
tidius, 
Or    I    shall    blush    to    death;    they    set    my 

shame, 
That   caused  'em,   full  before  me. 

Vent.  I'll  do  my  best. 

Ant.     Sure  there's  contagion   in  the   tears 

of  friends: 
See,    I   have   caught  it   too.    Believe  me,  'tis 

not 

For  my  own  griefs,  but  thine.— Nay,  father! 
Vent.  Emperor. 

Ant.     Emperor!    Why,   that's   the  style   of 

victory; 
The     conquering     soldier,     red     with     unfelt 

wounds, 

Salutes  his  general  so:  but  never  more 
Shall   that  sound  reach   my  ears. 

Vent.  I  warrant  you. 

Ant.     Actium,    Actium!    Oh! 

Vent.  It  sits  too  near  you. 

Ant.     Here,  here  it  lies;  a  lump  of  lead  by 

day, 

And,   in  my  short,  distracted,  nightly  slum- 
bers, 

The  hag   that  rides  my  dreams. 

Vent.     Out   with   it;    give   it   vent. 

Ant.  Urge  not  my  shame. 

I   lost   a  battle, 

Vent.  So  has  Julius  done. 

,•/;,'/.     Thou   favor'st  me,   and   speak'st   not 

half  thou   think'st; 
For  Julius  fought  it  out,  and  lost   it  fairly: 

But    Antony 

Vent.  Nay,  stop  not. 

Ant.  Antony, — 

Well,  thou  wilt  have  it,— like  a  coward,  fled, 
Fled    while    his    soldiers    fought;    fled    first, 

Ventidius. 
Thou   long'st   to   curse  me,   and   I    give   thee 

leave. 
I  know  thou  cam'st  prepared  to  rail. 

Vent.  I  did. 


47 


ACT  I.  Sc.  I. 


ALL  FOR  LOVE 


Ant.     I'll    help    thee. — I    have   been   a   man, 

Ventidius. 

Vent.     Ye*,  and  a   brave  one;   but 

Ant.  I   know    thy   meaning. 

But    I   have   lost   my   reason,   have   disgraced 
The    name    of    soldier,    with    inglorious    ease. 
In  the  full  vintage  of  my  flowing  honors, 
Sat   still,   and    saw   it   prest  by   other   hands. 
Fortune    came     smiling    to    my    youth,    and 

wooed    it, 

And  purple  greatness  met  my  ripened  years. 
When  first  I   came  to  empire,  I  was  borne 
On  tides  of  people,  crowding  to  my  triumphs; 
The   wish   of   nations,   and   the   willing   world 
Received   me   as   its   pledge   of    future   peace; 
I   was   so  great,   so   happy,   so   beloved, 
Fate  could  not  ruin  me;  till  I  took  pains, 
And    worked    against    my    fortune,    chid    her 

from   me, 
And    turned    her    loose;    yet    still    she    came 

again. 

My  careless  days,  and  my  luxurious  nights, 
At   length   have   wearied   her,  and  now   she's 

gone, 
Gone,     gone,     divorced    for    ever.    Help    me, 

soldier, 

To  curse  this  madman,  this  industrious  fool, 
Who  labored  to  be  wretched:  pr'ythee,  curse 


me. 

Vent. 

Ant. 

Vent. 


No. 
Why? 


You  are  too  sensible  already 


Of  what  you've  done,   too  conscious  of  your 

failings ; 

And,  like  a  scorpion,  whipt  by  others  first 
To   fury,   sting   yourself   in   mad  revenge. 
I    would    bring    balm,    and    pour    it    in    your 

wounds, 
Cure   your  distempered   mind,  and  heal   your 

fortunes. 

Ant.     I    know    thou    would'st. 
Vent.  I   will. 


Ant. 

Vent. 

Ant. 


You  laugh. 


Ha,  ha,  ha,  ha! 


I  do,  to  see  officious  love 


Give    cordials    to   the   dead. 

Vent.  You  would  be  lost,  then  ? 

Ant.     I    am. 

Vent.  I   say    you   are   not.    Try   your 

fortune. 
Ant.     I    have,    to    the    utmost.    Dost    thou 

think   me    desperate, 
Without   just   cause?    No,   when    I    found   all 

lost 

Beyond  repair,   I  hid  me  from   the  world, 
And    learnt    to    scorn    it   her  ;    which    now    I 

do 

So  heartily,  I  think  it  is  not  worth 
The    cost   of   keeping. 

Vent.  Caesar    thinks    not    so; 

He'll    thank    you    for    the    gift   he    could    not 

take. 
You  would   be  killed  like   Tully,    would   you? 


Do, 


Hold     out     your     throat     to    Caesar,    and    die 

tamely. 

Ant.     No,  I  can  kill  myself;  and  so  resolve. 
Vent.     I  can  die  with  you   too,  when   time 

shall    serve; 

But  fortune  calls  upon  us  now  to  live, 
To    fight,    to    conquer. 

Ant.  Sure  thou  dream'st,  Ventidius. 

Vent.     No;     'tis     you     dream;     you     sleep 
away  your  hours 

In   desperate   sloth,   miscalled   philosophy. 
Up,  up,  for  honor's  sake;  twelve  legions  wait 

you, 
And     long     to     call    you    chief;    by     painful 

journeys 

I  led  'em,  patient  both  of  heat  and  hunger, 
Down  from  the  Parthian  marches  to  the  Nile. 
'Twill  do  you  good  to  see  their  sunburnt 

faces, 
Their     scarred     cheeks,     and     chopt     hands; 

there's  virtue  in   'em. 
They'll    sell    those    mangled    limbs   at   dearer 

rates 
Than  yon  trim  bands  can  buy. 

Ant.  Where  left  you   them? 

Vent.     I   said  in  Lower  Syria. 
Ant.  Bring   'em   hither; 

There  may  be  life  in  these. 

Vent.  They  will    not    come. 

Ant.     Why     didst     thou     mock     my     hopes 

with    promised    aids, 

To    double    my    despair?      They're    mutinous. 
Vent.     Most  firm  and  loyal. 
Ant.  Yet  they  will  not  march 

To  succor  me.    O  trifler! 

Vent.  They  petition 

You  would  make  haste  to  head  them. 

Ant.  I'm   besieged. 

Vent.     There's  but  one  way  shut  up:   how 

came  I  hither? 
Ant.     I    will    not   stir. 

Vent.  They  would  perhaps  desire 

A   better   reason. 


Ant. 


I   have   never  used 


My  soldiers  to  demand  a  reason  of 
My  actions.    Why  did  they  refuse  to  march? 
Vent.     They  said  they  would  not  fight  for 

Cleopatra. 

Ant.     What   was't   they    said? 
Vent.     They   said  they   would  not  fight  for 

Cleopatra. 
Why  should  they  fight  indeed,   to  make  her 

conquer, 
And   make   you   more    a    slave?    to   gain   you 

kingdoms, 
Which,    for   a    kiss,    at    your    next    midnight 

feast, 
You'll  sell  to  her?    Then  she  new-names  her 

jewels, 

And  calls  this  diamond  such   or  such  a   tax; 

Each  pendant  in  her  ear  shall  be  a  province. 

Ant.     Ventidius,    I   allow  your  tongue   free 

license 
On  all  my  other  faults;  but,  on  your  life, 


48 


ALL  FOR  LOVE 


ACT  I,  Sc.  I. 


No   word  of  Cleopatra;   she   deserves 
More    worlds    than    I    can    lose. 

Vent.  Behold,  you  Powers, 

To  whom  you  have  intrusted  humankind! 
See  Europe,  Afric,  Asia,  put  in  balance, 
And   all   weighed   down  by   one  light,   worth- 
less   woman ! 

I  think  the   gods  are  Antonies,  and  give, 
Like   prodigals,   this   netheY   world  away 
To  none  but  wasteful  hands. 

Ant.  You  grow  presumptuous. 

Vent.     I    take   the    privilege   of    plain    love 

to   speak. 
Ant.     Plain    love!    plain    arrogance,    plain 

insolence ! 
Thy    men    are    cowards;    thou,    an    envious 

traitor; 

Who,    under    seeming    honesty,    hast    vented 
The  burden  of  thy  rank,  o'erflowing  gall. 

0  that  thou  wert  my  equal;  great  in  arms 
As    the   first    Caesar   was,    that    I   might   kill 

thee 
Without  a  stain  to  honor! 

Vent.  You  may  kill  me; 

You     have    done    more    already, — called    me 

traitor. 

Ant.     Art   thou  not   one? 
Vent.  For  showing  you  yourself, 

Which   none   else  durst  have   done?  but   had 

I  been 
That  name,  which   I  disdain   to  speak  again, 

1  needed  not   have   sought  your   abject   for- 

tunes, 

Come  to  partake  your  fate,  to  die  with  you. 

What  hindered  me  to  have  led  my   conquer- 
ing eagles 

To  fill   Octavius'  bands?     I   could  have  been 

A   traitor  then,   a  glorious,  happy   traitor, 

And   not   have   been    so   called. 
Ant.     Forgive  me,  soldier; 

I've  been  too  passionate. 
Vent.     You  thought  me  false; 

Thought    my    old    age    betrayed    you.      Kill 
me,   sir, 

Pray,   kill   me;   yet   you  need   not,   your   un- 
kindness 

Has    left   your    sword   no    work. 

Ant.  I  did  not  think  so; 

I     said    it     in    my     rage:     pr'ythee,    forgive 
me. 

Why    didst    thou    tempt    my    anger,    by    dis- 
covery 

Of  what  I  would  not  hear? 

Vent.  No  prince  but  you 

Could   merit  that   sincerity    I   used, 

Nor    durst    another    man    have    ventured    it; 

But    you,    ere    love    misled    your    wandering 
eyes, 

Were  sure  the  chief  and  best  of  human  race, 

Framed     in     the     very     pride     and     boast     of 
nature; 

So  perfect,   that   the  gods,   who  formed  you, 
wondered 

At  their  own  skill,  and  cried,  "  A  lucky   hit 


Has   mended   our   design."     Their    envy   hin- 
dered, 

Else  you   had  been  immortal,  and  a  pattern, 
When    Heaven    would    work    for    ostentation 

sake 
To  copy  out  again. 

Ant.  But  Cleopatra- 

Go  on;   for  I   can  bear  it  now. 

Vent.  No    more. 

Ant.     Thou    dar'st    not    trust    my    passion, 

but  thou  may'st; 

Thou  only  lov'st,  the  rest  have  flattered  me. 
Vent.     Heaven's    blessing    on    your    heart 

for   that  kind  word! 

May  I  believe  you  love  me?    Speak   again. 
Ant.     Indeed   I    do.     Speak    this,    and    this, 
and    this.  [Hugging    him. 

Thy    praises    were    unjust;    but,    I'll    deserve 

'em, 
And  yet  mend  all.     Do   with   me   what  thou 

wilt; 
Lead  me  to  victory!   thou  know'st  the  way. 

Vent.     And,  will  you  leave  this 

Ant.  Pr'ythee,  do  not  curse  her, 

And  I  will  leave  her;  though,  Heaven  knows, 

I  love 

Beyond  life,  conquest,  empire,  all  but  honor; 
But  I  will  leave  her. 

Vent.  That's  my  royal  master; 

And,   shall  we  fight? 

Ant.  I  warrant  thee,  old  soldier, 

Thou  shalt  behold  me  once  again  in  iron; 
And  at  the  head  of  our  old  troops,  that  beat 
The    Parthians,    cry    aloud,    "  Come,    follow 
me! " 
Vent.     Oh,    now    I    hear    my    emperor!    in 

that  word 

Octavius  fell.  Gods,  let  me  see  that  day, 
And,  if  I  have  ten  years  behind,  take  all: 
I'll  thank  you  for  the  exchange. 

Ant.  O  Cleopatra! 

Vent.     Again  ? 

-•'"'.  I've   done:    In   that  last   sigh 

she  went. 

Caesar  shall  know  what  'tis  to  force  a  lover 
From   all  he   holds   most   dear. 

Vent.  Methinks,    you    breathe 

Another   soul:    your    looks   are    more    divine; 
You  speak  a  hero,  and  you  move  a  god. 
//;//.     Oh,    thou    hast   fired   me:    my    soul's 

up  in  arms, 

And  mans  each  part  about  me.     Once  again, 
That  noble  eagerness  of  fight  has  seized  me; 
That    eagerness    with     which     I    darted    up- 
ward 

To  Cassius'  camp:  in  vain  the  steepy  hill 
Opposed  my  way;  in  vain  a  war  of  spears 
Sung    round    my    head,    and    planted    on    my 

shield; 

I  won  the  trenches,  while  my  foremost  men 
Lagged  on   the   plain  below. 

Vent.  Ye   gods,   ye  gods, 

For   such   another   honor! 

Ant.  Come  on,   my  soldier! 


49 


ACT  II,  Sc.  I. 


ALL  FOR  LOVE 


Our   hearts   and   arms   are   still   the   same:    I 

long 

Once  more  to  meet  our  foes;  that  thou  and  I, 
Like   Time   and   Death,   marching   before   our 


mow  'em  out  a  pas- 


troops, 
May   taste  fate  to 

sage, 
And,  entering  where  the  foremost  squadrons 

yield, 
Begin  the  noble  harvest  of  the  field. 

[Exeunt. 

ACT  II 

SCENE  I 
Enter  CLEOPATRA,  IRAS,  and  ALEXAS. 

Clco.     What    shall    I    do,    or   whither    shall 

I   turn? 
Ventidius  has  o'ercome,  and  he  will  go. 

Alex.     He   goes  to  fight   for  you. 

Cleo.     Then  he  would  see  me,  ere  he  went 

to   fight: 

Flatter   me    not;    if    once    he   goes,    he's   lost, 
And  all  my  hopes  destroyed. 

Alex.  Does  this  weak  passion 

Become  a  mighty  queen? 

Cleo.  I   am   no  queen: 

Is  this  to  be  a  queen,  to  be  besieged 
By  yon  insulting  Roman,   and  to  wait 
Each    hour    the    victor's    chain  ?    These    ills 

are  small: 

For  Antony  is  lost,  and  I  can  mourn 
For     nothing     else     but     him.       Now     come, 

Octavius, 

I  have   no  more   to  lose!  prepare  thy  bands; 
I'm  fit   to  be  a  captive;   Antony 
Has  taught  my  mind  the  fortune  of  a  slave. 

Iras.     Call  reason   to  assist  you. 


Cleo. 


I    have   none, 


And    none    would    have;    my    love's    a    noble 
madness, 

Which    shows   the   cause   deserved  it.     Mod- 
erate   sorrow 

Fits  vulgar  love,  and  for  a  vulgar  man: 

But    I    have    loved    with    such    transcendent 
passion, 

I  soared,  at  first,  quite  out  of  reason's  view, 

And   now   am   lost   above  it.     No,    I'm   proud 

'Tis   thus:   would  Antony  could  see  me   now! 

Think    you    he    would    not    sigh,    though    he 
must  leave  me? 

Sure  he  would  sigh;  for  he  is  noble-natured, 

And  bears  a  tender  heart:   I   know  him   well. 

Ah,   no,   I   know   him  not;   I   knew  him   once, 

But   now   'tis   past. 

Iras.  Let  it  be  past  with  you: 

Forget  him,  madam. 

Cleo.  Never,  never,  Iras. 

He    once   was    mine;    and    once,    though    now 
'tis   gone, 

Leaves  a  faint  image  of  possession  still. 
Alex.     Think    him    inconstant,    cruel,    and 
ungrateful. 


Cleo.     I  cannot:  if  I  could,  those  thoughts 

were    vain. 

Faithless,  ungrateful,  cruel,  though  he  be, 
I  still  must  love  him. 

Enter  CHARMION. 

Now,  what  news,  my  Charmion? 
Will  he  be  kind?  and  will  he  not  forsake  me? 
Am   I    to   live,    or  die? — nay,   do   I   live? 
Or  am  I  dead?  for  when  he  gave  his  answer, 
Fate  took  the  word,  and  then  I  lived  or  died. 

Char.     I  found  him,  madam 

Cleo.  A  long  speech  preparing? 

If  thou  bring'st  comfort,   haste,   and  give   it 

me, 
For   never  was   more   need. 

Iras.  I    know   he   loves    you. 

Clco.     Had    he    been    kind,    her    eyes    had 

told    me    so, 
Before   her  tongue   could   speak   it;   now   she 

studies, 

To  soften  what  he  said;  but  give  me  death, 
Just  as  he  sent  it,  Charmion,  undisguised, 
And  in  the  words  he  spoke. 

Char.  I  found  him,  then, 

Encompassed     round,     I     think,     with     iron 

statues; 

So    mute,    so    motionless    his    soldiers    stood, 
While    awfully   he   cast   his   eyes    about, 
And  every  leader's  hopes  or  fears  surveyed; 
Methought   he  looked   resolved,  and   yet   not 

pleased. 

When  he  beheld  me  struggling  in  the  crowd, 
He  blushed,  and  bade  make  way. 

Alex.  There's  comfort  yet. 

Char.     Ventidius    fixed   his   eyes    upon    my 

passage 

Severely,  as  he  meant  to  frown  me  back, 
And  sullenly  gave  place;  I  told  my  message, 
Just  as  you  gave  it,  broken  and  disordered; 
I  numbered  in  it  all  your  sighs  and  tears, 
And  while  I  moved  your  pitiful  request, 
That  you   but   only  begged   a  last  farewell, 
He    fetched    an    inward    groan;    and    every 

time 
I    named   you,    sighed,    as   if   his   heart   were 

breaking, 
But,    shunned   my    eyes,   and   guiltily    looked 

down; 

He  seemed  not  now  that  awful  Antony, 
Who  shook  an  armed  assembly  with  his  nod; 
But,  making  show  as  he  would  rub  his  eyes, 
Disguised    and    blotted    out   a    falling    tear. 
Cleo.     Did    he    then    weep?      And    was    I 

worth  a  tear? 

If  what  thou  hast  to  say  be  not  as  pleasing, 

Tell   me  no  more,   but   let  me   die  contented. 

Char.     He    bid    me    say, — he    knew    himself 

so  well, 
He  could  deny  you  nothing,   if  he   saw  you; 

And  therefore 

Clco.  Thou  wouldst  say,  he  would 

not  see  me? 


50 


ALL  FOR  LOVE 


ACT  II,  Sc.  I. 


Char.     And    therefore    begged    you    not    to 

use  a  power, 

Which  he  could  ill  resist;  yet  he  should  ever 
Respect   you,   as   he   ought. 

Cleo.  Is     that     a     word 

For  Antony  to  use  to  Cleopatra? 

0  that  faint  word,  respect!  how  I  disdain  it! 
Disdain   myself,    for    loving    after   it! 

He    should    have    kept    that    word    for    cold 

Octavia. 

Respect  is  for  a  wife;  am  I  that  thing, 
That  dull,  insipid  lump,  without  desires, 
And  without  power  to  give  'em? 

Alex.  You   misjudge; 

You  see  through  love,  and  that  deludes  your 

sight; 
As,  what  is  straight,  seems  crooked  through 

the  water; 

But  I,  who  bear  my  reason  undisturbed, 
Can   see   this   Antony,    this   dreaded   man, 
A  fearful  slave,  who  fain  wouid  turn  away, 
And    shuns    his    master's    eyes:    if    you   pur- 
sue  him, 

My  life  on't,  he  still  drags  a  chain  along. 
That  needs  must  clog  his  flight. 

Cleo.  Could   I   believe   thee! — 

Alex.     By    every    circumstance   I   know   he 

loves. 
True,    he's    hard   prest,    by    interest    and    by 

honor; 
Yet   he   but   doubts,   and   parleys,    and   casts 

out 
Many  a   long  look  for  succor. 

Cleo.  He  sends  word, 

He  fears  to  see  my  face. 

Alex.  And  would   you   more? 

He    shows    his    weakness    who    declines    the 

combat, 
And    you    must    urge    your    fortune.      Could 

he    speak 
More    plainly?      To    my    ears,    the    message 

sounds — 

"  Come  to  my  rescue,  Cleopatra,  come; 
Come,  free  me  from  Ventidius;  from  my 

tyrant: 
See    me,    and    give    me    a    pretence    to    leave 

him !— " 

1  hear  his  trumpets.    This  way  he  must  pass. 
Please    you,    retire    a    while;    I'll    work    him 

first, 
That  he  may   bend  more  easy. 

Cleo.  You  shall  rule  me; 

But  all,  I  fear,  in  vain. 

[Exit  with  CHARM  ION   and  IRAS. 
Alex.  I  fear  so  too; 

Though   I   concealed   my   thoughts,    to   make 

her  bold; 

But  'tis  our  utmost  means,  and  fate  befriend 
it!  [Withdraws. 

[Enter  Lictors  with  Fasces;  one  bearing  the 
Eagle;  then  enter  ANTONY  with  VEN- 
TIDIUS, followed  by  other  Com- 
manders. 


Ant.     Octavius     is     the     minion     of     blind 

chance, 
But   holds   from  virtue   nothing. 

Vent.  Has  he   courage? 

Ant.     But  just  enough  to  season  him  from 

coward. 

Oh,  'tis  the  coldest  youth  upon  a  charge, 
The   most    deliberate   fighter!   if   he   ventures 
(As   in   Illyria   once,   they   say,   he  did, 
To    storm    a    town),     'tis    when    he    cannot 

choose; 
When  all  the  world  have  fixt  their  eyes  upon 

him; 
And    then   he   lives   on   that   for   seven  years 

after; 

But,   at   a   close   revenge  he   never  fails. 
Vent.     I  heard  you  challenged  him. 
Ant.  I   did,   Ventidius. 

What  think'st  thou  was  his  answer?    'Twas 

so    tame ! 

He  said,  he  had  more  ways  than  one  to  die; 
I    had   not. 

Vent.       Poor! 

Ant.  He  has  more  ways  than  one; 

But   he   would   choose    them    all    before    that 

one. 
Vent.     He   first  would   choose  an   ague,  or 

a  fever. 
Ant.     No;     it    must    be    an    ague,    not    a 

fever; 

He  has  not  warmth   enough  to  die  by   that. 
Vent.     Or  old  age  and  a  bed. 
Ant.  Ay,  there's  his  choice, 

He  would  live,  like  a  lamp,  to  the  last  wink, 
And  crawl  upon  the  utmost  verge  of  life. 

0  Hercules!     Why    should   a   man   like   this, 
Who  dares  not   trust  his   fate  for  one  great 

action, 
Be  all  the  care  of  Heaven?     Why  should  he 

lord    it 
O'er  fourscore  thousand  men,  of  whom   each 

one 
Is    braver    than   himself? 

Vent.  You  conquered  for  him: 

Philippi    knows    it;    there    you    shared    with 

him 
That    empire,    which    your    sword    made    all 

your  own. 
Ant.     Fool    that    I    was,    upon    my    eagle's 

wings 

1  bore  this  wren,  till  I  was  tired  with  soar- 

ing, 

And  now   he  mounts  above  me. 
Good  heavens,  is  this,— is   this  the  man   who 

braves   me  ? 
Who    bids    my    age   make    way?     Drives   me 

before    him, 
To  the  world's  ridge,  and  sweeps  me  off  like 

rubbish  ? 
Vent.     Sir,    we    lose    time;    the    troops    are 

mounted   all. 

Ant.     Then    give    the   word    to   march: 
I   long  to  leave   this  prison   of  a   town, 
To  join  thy  legions;  and,   in   open  field, 


51 


ACT  II,  Sc.  I. 


ALL  FOR  LOVE 


Once    more     to    show    my    face.      Lead,     my 
deliverer. 

Enter  ALEXAS. 

Alex.     Great  emperor, 

In  mighty  arms  renowned  above  mankind, 
But,   in   soft  pity  to   the  opprest,  a  god; 
This  message   sends   the  mournful   Cleopatra 
To    her    departing   lord. 

Vent.  Smooth  sycophant! 

Alex.     A   thousand   wishes,    and   ten    thou- 
sand prayers, 

Millions   of  blessings  wait  you  to  the  wars; 
Millions   of    sighs    and    tears   she    sends    you 

too, 

And    would    have   sent 

As   many   dear   embraces    to   your   arms, 
As  many  parting  kisses  to  your  lips; 
But   those,   she   fears,   have   wearied  you   al- 
ready. 

Vent,  [aside].     False  crocodile! 
Alex.     And    yet    she    begs    not    now,    you 

would  not  leave  her; 

That  were  a  wish  too  mighty  for  her  hopes, 
Too    presuming 

For  her  low  fortune,   and  your  ebbing  love; 
That   were   a   wish   for   her   more   prosperous 

days, 
Her     blooming    beauty,    and    your    growing 

kindness. 
Ant.    [aside].    Well,    I   must   man    it   out: — 

what   would   the   queen? 
Alex.     First,  to  these  noble  warriors,  who 

attend 

Your  daring  courage  in  the  chase  of  fame, — 
Too     daring,     and     too     dangerous     for     her 

quiet, — 

She   humbly  recommends  all   she  holds  dear, 
All    her    own    cares    and    fears,— the    care    of 

you. 

Vent.     Yes,  witness   Actium. 
Ant.  Let  him  speak,  Ventidius. 

Alex.     You,  when  his  matchless  valor  bears 

him    forward, 

With   ardor    too   heroic,    on    his    foes, 
Fall  down,  as  she  would  do,  before  his  feet; 
Lie  in  his  way,  and  stop  the  paths  of  death: 
Tell   him,   this   god   is   not   invulnerable; 
That    absent    Cleopatra    bleeds    in    him;     • 
And,    that   you   may   remember   her   petition, 
She  begs  you  wear  these  trifles,  as  a  pawn, 
Which,   at   your   wished   return,    she   will   re- 
deem         [Gives  jewels  to  the  Commanders. 
With  all   the  wealth  of  Egypt; 
This  to  the  great  Ventidius  she  presents, 
Whom  she  can  never  count  her  enemy, 
Because   he  loves   her  lord. 

Vent.  Tell  her,  I'll  none  on't; 

I'm  not  ashamed  of  honest  poverty; 
Not   all   the  diamonds  of   the   East   can   bribe 
Ventidius  from  his  faith.     I  hope  to   see 
These  and  the  rest  of  all  her  sparkling  store, 
Where  they  shall  more  deservingly  be  placed. 
Ant.     And  who  must  wear  'em  then? 


Vent.  The   wronged   Octavia. 

Ant.     You   might    have   spared    that    word. 
Vent.  And  he  that  bribe. 

Ant.     But  have   I   no   remembrance? 
Alex.  Yes,  a  dear  one; 

Your  slave  the  queen 

Ant.  My    mistress. 

Alex.  Then  your  mistress; 

Your    mistress    would,    she    says,    have    sent 

her    soul, 
But    that    you    had   long    since;    she   humbly 

begs 

This  ruby  bracelet,  set  with  bleeding  hearts, 

(The   emblems   of    her   own),    may   bind   your 

arm.  [Presenting  a   bracelet. 

Vent.     Now,     my     best     lord, — in     honor's 

name,    I    ask    you, 
For  manhood's  sake,  and  for  your  own  dear 

safety, — 

Touch   not   these  poisoned   gifts, 
Infected   by   the  sender;   touch  'em   not; 
Myriads  of  bluest  plagues  lie  underneath  'em, 
And  more  than  aconite  has  dipt  the  silk. 
Ant.     Nay,     now    you    grow     too    cynical, 

Ventidius: 

A  lady's   favors  may   be   worn   with   honor. 
What,   to   refuse  her  bracelet!     On  my   soul, 
When  I  lie  pensive  in  my  tent  alone, 
'Twill    pass     the     wakeful     hours     of     winter 

nights, 

To  tell  these  pretty  beads  upon  my  arm, 
To  count  for  every  one  a  soft  embrace, 
A  melting  kiss  at  such  and  such  a  time, 
And  now  and  then  the  fury  of  her  love, 

When And    what   harm's    in    this? 

Alex.  None,  none,  my  lord, 

But    what's    to    her,    that    now    'tis    past    for 

ever. 
Ant.    [going  to   tie  it].    We   soldiers  are  so 

awkward — help  me  tie  it. 
Alex.     In  faith,   my  lord,  we   courtiers   too 

are  awkward 

In   these  affairs;  so  are  all  men  indeed: 
Even  I,  who  am  not  one.    But  shall  I  speak  ? 
Ant.     Yes,  freely. 

Alex.  Then,  my  lord,  fair  hands  alone 

Are  fit   to  tie   it;   she,  who   sent   it   can. 
Vent.     Hell,     death!     this    eunuch     pander 

ruins   you. 
You  will  not  see  her? 

[ALEXAS  whispers  an  Attendant,  who  goes 

out. 

Ant.  But    to    take    my    leave. 

I'cnt.     Then    I     have    washed    an    /Ethiop. 

You're   undone; 
You're    in    the    toils;    you're    taken;    you're 

destroyed: 
Her  eyes  do  Caesar's  work. 

Ant.  You   fear   too   soon. 

I'm  constant  to  myself:  I  know  my  strength; 
And   yet    she   shall    not   think    me   barbarous 

neither, 

Born   in   the   depths  of   Afric;   I'm   a  Roman, 
Bred  in  the  rules  of  soft  humanity. 


52 


ALL  FOR  LOVE 


ACT  II,  Sc.  I. 


A    guest,   and   kindly    used,    should   bid   fare- 
well. 

Vent.     You   do   not   know 
How    weak    you    are    to    her,    how    much    an 

infant; 

You  are  not  proof  against  a  smile,  or  glance; 
A  sigh  will  quite  disarm  you. 

Ant.  See,  she  comes! 

Now    you    shall    find    your    error.      Gods,    I 

thank   you: 

I  formed  the  danger  greater  than  it  was, 
And  now  'tis  near,  'tis  lessened. 

Vent.  Mark  the  end  yet. 

Enter    CLEOPATRA,     CHARMION,    and    IRAS. 

Ant.     Well,   madam,  we  are  met. 
Clco.  Is   this   a  meeting? 

Then,  we  must  part? 

Ant.  We   must. 

Cleo.  Who  says  we  must? 

A  nt.     Our  own  hard  fates. 

Cleo.  We  make  those  fates  ourselves. 

Ant.     Yes,    we    have    made    'em;    we    have 

loved   each    other, 
Into   our   mutual    ruin. 

Cleo.     The    gods    have   seen   my   joys   with 

envious  eyes; 
I    have    no    friends    in    heaven;    and    all    the 

world, 
(As   'twere  the  business  of  mankind  to  part 

us), 

Is   armed   against   my    love;    even   you   your- 
self 
Join    with    the    rest;    you,    you    are    armed 

against  me. 

Ant.     I    will    be    justified    in    all    I    do 
To  late  posterity,  and  therefore  hear  me. 
If    I    mix   a   lie 

With  any  truth,  reproach  me  freely  with  it; 
Else,  favor  me  with  silence. 

Cleo.  You   command   me, 

And  I  am  dumb. 

Vent.     I  like  this  well;  he  shows  authority. 
Ant.     That    I    derive   my   ruin 

From   you   alone 

Cleo.  O   heavens!     I    ruin   you! 

Ant.     You   promised   me  your   silence,  and 

you   break   it 
Ere  I  have  scarce  begun. 

Cleo.  Well,   I   obey  you. 

Ant.     When   I    beheld   you   first,    it   was   in 

Egypt, 
Ere    Caesar    saw    your    eyes;    you    gave    me 

love, 
And    were    too    young    to    know    it;    that    I 

settled 
Your    father    in    his    throne,    was    for    your 

sake; 

I  left  the  acknowledgment  for  time  to  ripen. 
Cassar  stept  in,  and,  with  a  greedy  hand, 
Plucked   the   green  fruit,   ere   the   first  blush 

of  red, 

Yet  cleaving  to  the  bough.    He  was  my  lord, 
And  was,  beside,  too  great  for  me  to  rival; 


But,    I    deserved    you    first,    though    he    en- 
joyed  you. 

When,  after,  I  beheld  you  in  Cilicia, 

An  enemy  to  Rome,  I  pardoned  you. 

Cleo.     I    cleared   myself 

Ant.  Again  you  break  your  promise. 

I    loved   you   still,   and    took   your   weak    ex- 
cuses, 

Took  you  into  my  bosom,  stained  by  Caesar, 

And   not   half    mine:    I    went    to    Egypt   with 
you, 

And  hid  me  from  the  business  of  the  world, 

Shut    out   inquiring   nations    from    my    sight, 

To   give  whole  years  to  you. 

Vent,  [aside].  Yes,  to  your  shame  be't  spoken. 
Ant.  How  I  loved, 

Witness,    ye    days    and    nights,    and    all    ye 
hours, 

That    danced    away    with    down    upon    your 
feet, 

As  all  your  business  were  to  count  my  pas- 
sion! 

One    day    passed    by,    and    nothing    saw    but 
love; 

Another  came,  and  still  'twas  only  love: 

The  suns  were  wearied  out  with  looking  on, 

And   I   untired   with  loving. 

I  saw  you  every  day,  and  all  the  day; 

And  every  day  was  still  but  as  the  first, 

So  eager  was  I  still  to  see  you  more. 
Vent.     'Tis    all    too    true. 
.•Int.  Fulvia,   my    wife,    grew   jealous, 

As  she  indeed  had  reason,  raised  a  war 

In  Italy,  to  call  me  back. 

Vent.  But  yet 

You   went    not. 

Ant.  While  within  your  arms  I  lay, 

The    world   fell    mouldering    from    my    hands 
each     hour, 

And   left    me    scarce    a   grasp — I    thank    your 
love  for't. 

Vent.     Well    pushed:    that   last   was    home. 
Cleo.     Yet  may  I   speak? 
Ant.    If    I    have    urged    a    falsehood,    yes; 
else,  not. 

Your  silence  says,   I  have  not.    Fulvia  died, 

(Pardon,     you     gods,     with     my     unkindness 
died) ; 

To   set   the  world   at  peace,   I   took   Octavia, 

This   Caesar's    sister;   in   her   pride   of   youth, 

And   flower   of   beauty,   did    I   wed   that   lady, 

Whom    blushing    I    must    praise,    because    I 
left    her. 

You   called;    my   love   obeyed    the   fatal    sum- 
mons: 

This  raised  the  Roman  arms;  the  cause  was 
yours. 

I    would   have    fought   by   land,   where   I    was 
stronger; 

You    hindered     it;     yet,     when     I    fought    at 
sea, 

Forsook  me  fighting;  and  (O  stain  to  honor! 

O  lasting  shame!)  I  knew  not  that  I  fled; 

But  fled   to   follow  you. 


53 


ACT  II,  Sc.  I. 


ALL  FOR  LOVE 


/,-'.,'.     What   haste   she  made   to  hoist  her 
purple    sails ! 

And,   to  appear  magnificent  in   flight, 
Drew  half  our  strength  away. 


Ant. 


All  this  you  caused. 


And,  would  you  multiply  more  ruins  on  me? 

This   honest  man,   my   best,   my   only   friend, 

Has  gathered  up  the  shipwreck  of  my  for- 
tunes; 

Twelve  legions  I  have  left,  my  last  recruits. 

And  you  have  watched  the  news,  and  bring 
your  eyes 

To  seize  them  too.  If  you  have  aught  to 
answer, 

Now  speak,  you  have  free  leave. 


Alex,   [aside]. 


She  stands  confounded: 


Despair   is   in   her   eyes. 

Vent.     Now  lay  a  sigh  in  the  way  to  stop 
his   passage: 

Prepare  a  tear,  and  bid  it  for  his  legions; 

'Tis    like   they    shall   be   sold. 

Clco.     How   shall   I   plead  my  cause,   when 
you,    my   judge, 

Already  have  condemned  me?    Shall   I  bring 

The  love  you  bore  me  for  my  advocate? 

That    now    is    turned    against    me,    that    de- 
stroys  me; 

For '  love,    once    past,    is,    at    the    best,    for- 
gotten; 

But  oftener  sours   to  hate:   'twill  please  my 
lord 

To  ruin  me,  and  therefore  I'll  be   guilty. 

But,    could    I    once    have    thought    it    would 
have  pleased  you, 

That  you  would  pry,  with  narrow   searching 
eyes, 

Into  my  faults,   severe   to  my  destruction, 

And  watching  all  advantages  with  care, 

That    serve    to    make    me   wretched?    Speak, 
my   lord, 

For    I    end    here.    Though    I    deserved    this 
usage, 

Was   it  like   you   to  give   it? 


Ant. 


O,    you   wrong   me, 


To    think    I    sought   this    parting,   or    desired 
To    accuse    you    more    than    what    will    clear 

myself, 
And  justify  this  breach. 


Cleo. 


Thus   low   I   thank   you; 


And,    since    my    innocence    will    not    offend, 
I   shall  not  blush  to   own  it. 

Vent.  After    this, 

I  think  she'll  blush  at   nothing. 


Cleo. 


You  seemed  grieved 


(And  therein  you  are  kind),  that  Caesar  first 
Enjoyed    my    love,    though    you    deserved    it 

better; 
I  grieve  for  that,  my  lord,  much  more  than 

you; 
For,    had   I   first   been   yours,   it  would   have 

saved 

My  second  choice:   I  never  had  been  his, 
And   ne'er   had   been   but   yours.    But   Caesar 


first, 


You    say,    possessed    my    love.    Not    so,    my 

lord: 

He  first  possessed  my  person;  you,  my  love: 
Cesar  loved  me;  but  I  loved  Antony. 
If  I  endured  him  after,  'twas  because 
I  judged   it  due  to  the  first  name  of   men; 
And,  half  constrained,  I  gave,  as  to  a  tyrant, 
What  he  would  take  by  force. 

Vent.  O   Siren!    Siren! 

Yet  grant  that  all  the  love  she  boasts  were 

true, 

Has   she   not  ruined  you?    I    still  urge   that, 
The  fatal  consequence. 

Clco.  The  consequence  indeed, 

For  I   dare  challenge  him,   my   greatest  foe, 
To    say   it   was    designed;    'tis   true,    I   loved 

you, 

And  kept  you  far  from  an  uneasy  wife, — 
Such  Fulvia  was. 
Yes,     but    he'll     say, 

me; — 


you    left    Octavia    for 


And,  can  you  blame  me  to  receive  that  love, 
Which     quitted    such    desert,     for    worthless 

me? 

How  often  have  I  wished  some  other  Caesar, 

Great  as  the  first,  and  as  the  second  young, 

Would  court  my  love,  to  be  refused  for  you! 

Vent.     Words,     words;    but     Actium,     sir; 

remember  Actium. 
Clco.      Even     there,     I     dare     his     malice. 

True,    I    counselled 

To  fight  at  sea;   but   I  betrayed  you  not. 
I   fled,  but  not  to  the   enemy.    'Twas  fear; 
Would  I  had  been  a  man,  not  to  have  feared! 
For  none   would   then  have   envied   me   your 

friendship, 
Who  envy  me  your  love. 


Ant. 


We're   both   unhappy : 


If  nothing  else,  yet  our  ill  fortune  parts  us. 

Speak;    would    you    have    me    perish    by    my 

stay? 

Clco.     If,   as   a   friend,   you   ask   my    judg- 
ment,   go; 

If,   as  a  lover,  stay.    If  you   must  perish 

'Tis  a  hard  word — but  stay. 


Vent.     See     now 
boasted  love! 


the     effects     of     her     so 


She  strives   to  drag  you  down  to   ruin  with 

her; 
But,    could   she   scape  without   you,   oh,    how 

soon 
Would    she    let    go    her   hold,    and    haste    to 

shore, 
And   never    look   behind! 

Cleo.     Then   judge   my   love   by   this. 

[.Giving  ANTONY  a  writing. 
Could  I  have  borne 
A  life  or  death,  a  happiness  or  woe, 
From     yours    divided,     this     had    given     me 

means. 
Ant.     By    Hercules,     the     writing    of    Oc- 

tavius ! 

I  know  it  well:  'tis  that  proscribing  hand, 
Young  as  it  was,   that  led  the  way  to  mine, 


54 


ALL  FOR  LOVE 


ACT  III,  Sc.  I. 


And   left   me   but   the   second  place   in   mur- 
der.— 

See,  see,  Ventidius!  here  he  offers  Egypt, 
And  joins  all  Syria   to  it,  as   a  present; 
So,  in  requital,   she  forsake  my   fortunes, 
And  join   her  arms   with   his. 

Clco.  And   yet   you   leave   me! 

You  leave  me,  Antony;   and  yet  I  love  you, 
Indeed   I   do:   I   have  refused   a  kingdom; 
That's    a   trifle; 

For  I  could  part  with  life,  with  anything, 
But  only  you.    Oh,  let  me  die  but  with  you! 
Is  that  a  hard  request? 

Ant.  '  Next  living  with  you, 

'Tis   all   that  heaven   can  give. 

Alex,   [aside].  He  melts;,  we  conquer. 

Clco.     No;     you    shall    go:     your    interest 

calls  you    hence; 
Yes;  your  dear  interest  pulls  too  strong,  for 

these 
Weak   arms  to  hold  you  here. 

[Takes  his  hand, 

Go;  leave  me,  soldier 

(For    you're    no    more    a    lover):    leave    me 

dying: 
Push    me,    all    pale    and   panting,    from    your 

bosom, 
And,   when  your  march  begins,   let   one   run 

after, 
Breathless   almost   for  joy,    and   cry,   "  She's 

dead." 
The  soldiers  shout;   you  then,  perhaps,  may 

sigh, 

And  muster  all  your  Roman  gravity: 
Ventidius    chides;    and    straight    your    brow 

clears   up, 
As  I  had  never  been. 

Ant.  Gods,    'tis    too    much; 

Too.  much  for  man  to  bear. 

Cleo.  '  What    is't    for    me    then, 

A  weak,   forsaken  woman,  and  a  lover? — 
Here   let  me  breathe  my   last:   envy  me  not 
This  minute  in  your  arms:  I'll  die  apace, 
As  fast  as  e'er  I   can,  and  end  your  trouble. 
Ant.     Die!   rather  let   me  perish;    loosened 

nature 
Leap     from    its    hinges,    sink    the    props    of 

heaven, 

And  fall  the  skies,  to  crush  the  nether  world! 

My   eyes,  my  soul,  my  all !       [Embraces  her. 

Vent.  And  what's  this  toy, 

In   balance  with  your  fortune,   honor,   fame? 

Ant.     What   is't,    Ventidius  ?— it   outweighs 

them  all; 
Why,    we   have  more   than   conquered   Caesar 

now: 
My  queen's  not  only  innocent,  but  loves  me. 


This,    this 

ruin! 
"  But,    could    she 

what  haste 


she,    who    drags    me    down    to 
scape    without    me,    with 


Would    she    let    slip    her   hold,    and   make    to 

shore, 
And  never  look  behind !  " 


Down  on  thy  knees,  blasphemer  as  thou  art, 
And  ask  forgiveness  of  wronged  innocence. 
Vent.     I'll    rather   die,   than    take   it.     Will 

you  go? 

Ant.     Go!  whither?    Go  from  all  that's  ex- 
cellent ? 

Faith,  honor,  virtue,  all  good  things  forbid, 
That  I  should  go  from  her,  who  sets  my  love 
Above  the  price  of  kingdoms!  Give,  you 

gods, 

Give  to  your  boy,  your  Caesar, 
This  rattle  of  a  globe  to  play  withal, 
This    gewgaw    world,    and    put    him    cheaply 

off: 

I'll  not  be  pleased  with  less   than  Cleopatra. 
('/,•,•).     She's   wholly   yours.     My  heart's    so 

full  of  joy, 

That  I  shall  do  some  wild  extravagance 
Of  love,  in  public;  and  the  foolish  world, 
Which   knows   not  tenderness,  will   think  me 

mad. 
Vent.     O   women !   women !  women !   all   the 

gods 

Have  not  such  power  of  doing  good  to  man, 
As  you  of  doing  harm.  [Exit. 

Ant.  Our  men  are  armed. 

Unbar  the  gate  that  looks  to  Caesar's  camp; 
I  would  revenge  the  treachery  he  meant  me; 
And  long   security   makes   conquest  easy. 
I'm   eager   to   return  before   I   go; 
For,    all    the    pleasures    I    have    known    beat 

thick 

On  my  remembrance. — How  I  long  for  night! 
That  both   the  sweets  of  mutual  love   may 

try, 

And   once   triumph  o'er  Caesar   ere  we   die. 

[Exeunt. 
ACT  III 
SCENE  I 

At  one  door  enter  CLEOPATRA,  CHARMION,  IRAS, 
and  ALEXAS,  a  Train  of  Egyptians:  at  the 
other  ANTONY  and  Romans.  The  entrance 
on  both  sides  is  prepared  by  music;  the 
trumpets  first  sounding  on  ANTONY'S  part: 
then  answered  by  timbrels,  etc.,  on  CLEO- 
PATRA'S. CHARMION  and  IRAS  hold  a  laurel 
wreath  betwixt  them.  A  Dance  of  Egyp- 
tians. After  the  ceremony,  CLEOPATRA 
crowns  ANTONY. 

Ant.     I    thought    how    those    white    arms 

would  fold  me  in, 

And  strain  me  close,  and  melt  me  into  love; 
So  pleased  with  that  sweet  image,  I  sprung 

forwards, 

And  added  all  my  strength  to  every  blow. 
Clco.     Come    to   me,   come,    my    soldier,    to 

my  arms! 

You've    been    too    long    away    from    my    em- 
braces; 
But,  when  I  have  you  fast,  and  all  my  own, 


With    broken 
sighs, 


murmurs,    and    with    amorous 


55 


ACT  III,  Sc.  I. 


ALL  FOR  LOVE 


I'll   say,  you  were  unkind,  and  punish  you, 
And  mark  you  red  with  many  an  eager  kiss. 

Ant.     My  brighter  Venus! 

Cleo.  O   my   greater   Mars! 

Ant.     Thou  join'st  us  well,  my  love! 
Suppose  me  come  from  the  Phlegraean  plains, 
Where     gasping     giants     lay,     cleft     by    my 

sword, 

And  mountain-tops  pared  off  each  other  blow, 
To  bury  those  I  slew.     Receive  me,  goddess ! 
Let  Cesar  spread  his  subtle  nets;   like  Vul- 
can, 

In  thy  embraces  I  would  be  beheld 
By  heaven  and  earth  at  once; 
And  make  their  envy  what  they  meant  their 

sport. 
Let  those,  who  took  us,  blush;  I  would  love 

on, 

With  awful  state,  regardless  of  their  frowns, 
As  their  superior  gods. 
There's  no  satiety  of  love  in  thee: 
Enjoyed,  thou  still  art  new;  perpetual  spring 
Is  in  thy  arms;  the  ripened  fruit  but  falls, 
And  blossoms  rise  to  fill  its  empty  place; 
And  I  grow  rich  by  giving. 

Enter  VENTIDIUS,  and  stands  apart. 

Alex.     Oh,    now    the    danger's    past,    your 

general  comes! 
He  joins   not  in  your  joys,   nor  minds  your 

triumphs ; 
But,   with   contracted   brows,   looks  frowning 

on, 
As  envying  your  success. 

Ant.     Now,  on  my  soul,  he  loves  me;  truly 

loves  me: 

He  never  flattered  me  in  any  vice, 
But  awes  me  with  his  virtue:  even  this  min- 
ute, 

Methinks,  he  has  a  right  of  chiding  me. 
Lead   to  the  temple;   I'll  avoid   his   presence; 
It  checks   too   strong  upon  me. 

[Exeunt  the  rest. 
[As    ANTONY    is    going,    VENTIDIUS    pulls 

him    by    the   robe. 

Vent.  Emperor ! 

Ant.  [looking  back"].    'Tis  the  old  argument; 

I    pr'ythee,    spare    me. 
Vent.     But  this  one  hearing,  emperor. 
Ant.  Let  go 

My  robe;  or,  by  my  father  Hercules — 

Vent.     By     Hercules'     father,     that's     yet 

greater, 
I    bring    you    somewhat    you    would    wish    to 

know. 

Ant.     Thou    see'st    we    are    observed;    at- 
tend me  here, 

And  I'll  return.  [Exit. 

Vent.     I'm  waning  in  his  favor,  yet  I  love 

him; 

I  love  this  man,  who  runs  to  meet  his  ruin; 
And  sure  the  gods,  like  me,  are  fond  of  him: 
His  virtues  lie  so  mingled  with  his  crimes, 


As    would    confound    their    choice    to    punish 

one, 
And  not  reward  the  other. 

Enter  ANTONY. 

<4«f«  We    can   conquer, 

You    see,    without   your    aid. 

We  have  dislodged  their  troops; 

They  look  on  us  at  distance,  and,  like  curs 

Scaped    from    the   lion's   paws,    they    bay   far 
off, 

And  lick  their  wounds,   and  faintly  threaten 
war. 

Five  thousand  Romans,  with  their  faces  up- 
ward, 

Lie   breathless   on   the   plain. 

Vent.  'Tis   well;   and   he, 

Who   lost   'em,    could   have   spared   ten    thou- 
sand more. 

Yet  if,  by  this  advantage,  you  could  gain 

An    easier    peace,    while    Caesar    doubts    the 
chance 

Of  arms 

Ant.  Oh,     think    not    on't,    Ventidius! 

The  boy  pursues  my  ruin,  he'll  no  peace; 

His   malice   is  considerate  in  advantage. 

Oh,    he's   the   coolest   murderer!   so   staunch, 

He  kills,   and   keeps    his   temper. 

Vent.  Have    you    no    friend 

In    all    his    army,    who    has    power    to    move 
him? 

Maecenas,  or  Agrippa,  might  do  much. 

Ant.     They're    both    too    deep    in    Caesar's 
interests. 

We'll  work  it  out  by  dint  of  sword,   or  per- 
ish. 

Vent.     Fain  I  would  find   some  other. 
Ant.  Thank    thy   love. 

Some  four  or  five   such  victories  as   this 

Will   save  thy  further  pains. 

Vent.     Expect    no   more;   Caesar   is   on   his 
guard: 

I    know,    sir,    you    have    conquered    against 
odds; 

But   still   you   draw   supplies    from   one   poor 
town, 

And  of  Egyptians;  he  has  all  the  world, 

And,   at   his   beck,    nations    come   pouring   in, 

To    fill    the    gaps    you    make.      Pray,    think 

again. 

Ant.     Why   dost  thou  drive   me   from  my- 
self, to  search 

For  foreign  aids? — to  hunt  my  memory, 

And  range  all  o'er  a  waste  and  barren  place, 

To    find    a    friend?  -  The    wretched    have    no 
friends. 

Yet  I  had  one,  the  bravest  youth  of  Rome, 

Whom     Caesar     loves     beyond     the     love     of 
women : 

He  could  resolve  his  mind,  as  fire  does  wax, 

From    that    hard    rugged    image    melt    him 
down, 

And    mould    him    in    what    softer    form    he 
pleased. 


56 


ALL  FOR  LOVE 


ACT  III,  Sc.  I. 


Vent.     Him   would   I   see;    that   man   of  all 

the  world; 
Just  such  a  one  we  want. 

Ant.  He  loved  me  too; 

I   was   his   soul;   he  lived  not  but  in  me: 
We     were     so     closed     within     each     other's 

breasts, 
The    rivets   were   not    found,    that   joined    us 

first. 
That    does    not    reach    us    yet:    we    were    so 

mixt, 
As  meeting  streams,  both  to  ourselves  were 

lost; 
We   were   one    mass;   we   could   not   give   or 

take, 

But  from  the  same;  for  he  was  I,   I  he. 
Vent,    [aside].     He  moves  as  I   would  wish 

him. 

Ant.  After  this, 

I    need    not    tell   his    name; — 'twas    Dolabella. 
Vent.     He's  now  in  Caesar's  camp. 
Ant.  No   matter   where, 

Since    he's    no    longer    mine.      He    took    un- 
kindly,  • 

That  I   forbade  him   Cleopatra's  sight, 
Because  I  feared  he  loved  her:  he  confessed, 
He   had   a  warmth,   which,   for  my   sake,  he 

stifled; 

For  'twere  impossible  that  two,  so  one, 
Should   not  have   loved  the   same.     When  he 

departed, 
He    took    no    leave;    and   that   confirmed    my 

thoughts. 
Vent.     It  argues,   that   he  loved  you  more 

than  her, 
Else    he    had   stayed;    but   he    perceived   you 

jealous, 
And  would  not  grieve  his  friend;  I  know  he 

loves  you. 
Ant.     I    should    have    seen    him,    then,    ere 

now. 

Vent.  Perhaps 

He    has    thus    long    been    laboring    for    your 

peace. 

Ant.     Would  he  were  here! 
Vent.     Would    you    believe   he    loved   you? 
I     read     your     answer     in     your    eyes,     you 

would. 

Not  to  conceal  it  longer,  he  has  sent 
A   messenger   from   Caesar's   camp,   with   let- 
ters. 

A  tit.     Let  him  appear. 

Vent.  I'll  bring  him  instantly. 

[Exit     VENTIDIUS,     and     re-enters     imme- 
diately  with   DOLABELLA. 

Ant.     Tis    he    himself!    himself,    by    holy 
friendship ! 

[Runs  to  embrace  him. 

Art   thou  returned   at  last,   my   better  half? 
Come,  give  me  all  myself! 

Let   me   not    live, 
If    the    young    bridegroom,    longing    for    his 

night, 
Was  ever  half  so  fond. 


Dola.     I    must    be    silent,    for    my    soul    is 

busy 

About  a  nobler  work:  she's  new  come  home, 
Like  a  long-absent  man,  and  wanders  o'er 
Each   room,  a  stranger   to  her  own,   to  look 
If  all  be  safe. 

Ant.  Thou   hast   what's   left  of  me; 

For  I  am  now  so  sunk  from  what  I  was, 
Thou    find'st   me   at   my   lowest   water-mark. 
The   rivers  that  ran  in,   and  raised   my  for- 
tunes, 

Are  all  dried  up,  or  take  another  course: 
What  I  have  left  is  from  my  native  spring; 
I've    still    a    heart    that    swells,    in    scorn    of 

fate, 

And  lifts  me  to  my  banks. 
Dola.'  Still   you   are  lord  of  all   the  world 

to  me. 
Ant.     Why,  then  I  yet  am  so;  for  thou  art 

all. 

If  I  had  any  joy  when  thou  wert  absent, 
I  grudged  it  to  myself;  methought  I  robbed 
Thee  of  thy  part.    But,  O  my  Dolabella! 
Thou  hast  beheld  me  other  than  I  am. 
Hast   thou    not   seen   my   morning    chambers 

filled 
With   sceptred   slaves,  who  waited  to  salute 

me? 

With  eastern  monarchs,  who  forgot  the  sun, 
To  worship  my  uprising?     Menial  kings 
Ran  coursing  up   and  down  my  palace-yard, 
Stood    silent    in    my    presence,    watched    my 

eyes, 

And,  at  my  least  command,  all   started  out, 
Like  racers  to  the  goal. 

Dola.  Slaves    to   your   fortune. 

A  tit.     Fortune   is   Caesar's    now;    and    what 

am  I? 
I' cut.     What    you    have    made    yourself;    I 

will  not  flatter. 
Ant.     Is   this  friendly  done? 
Dola.     Yes;    when    his    end    is   so,    I    must 

join  with  him; 

Indeed  I  must,  and  yet  you  must  not  chide; 
Why  am  I  else  your  friend? 

Ant.  Take    heed,    young    man, 

How    thou    upbraid'st    my    love;    the    queen 

has  eyes, 

And  thou   too   hast   a  soul.     Canst  thou  re- 
member, 
When,    swelled    with    hatred,    thou   beheld'st 

her  first, 
As  accessary  to  thy  brother's  death? 

Dola.     Spare     my    remembrance;    'twas    a 

guilty   day, 
And  still  the  blush  hangs  here. 

Ant.  To  clear  herself 

For    sending    him    no    aid,    she    came    from 

Egypt. 

Her    galley    down    the    silver   Cydnos    rowed. 
The  tackling  silk,  the  streamers  waved  with 

gold; 
The    gentle    winds    were    lodged    in    purple 

sails; 


57 


ACT  III,  Sc.  I. 


ALL  FOR  LOVE 


Her  nymphs,   like   Nereids,   round  her  couch 

were   placed; 

Where  she,  another  sea-born  Venus,  lay. 
Dola.     No  more;  I  would  not  hear  it. 
An!.  Oh,   you   must! 

She    lay,     and     leant    her    cheek     upon     her 

hand, 

And   cast  a   look   so   languishingly   sweet, 
As  if,  secure  of  all  beholders'  hearts, 
Neglecting,    she    could    take    'em:    boys,    like 

Cupids, 
Stood   fanning   with   their  painted  wings   the 

winds 
That    played    about    her    face.      But    if    she 

smiled, 

A  darting  glory   seemed   to  blaze  abroad, 
That      men's      desiring      eyes      were      never 

wearied, 

But  hung  upon  the  object.    To  soft  flutes 
The    silver   oars   kept   time;   and   while    they 

played, 

The  hearing  gave  new  pleasure  to  the  sight; 
And    both     to     thought.      'Twas    heaven,    or 

somewhat  more: 
For   she   so  charmed  all   hearts,  that  gazing 

crowds 
Stood    panting    on    the    shore,    and    wanted 

breath 

To  give  their  welcome  voice. 
Then,    Dolabella,   where   was   then   thy   soul? 
Was  not  thy  fury  quite  disarmed  with  won- 
der? 
Didst  thou  not  shrink  behind  me  from  those 

eyes 

And  whisper  in  my  ear,  "  Oh,  tell  her  not 
That     I     accused     her     with     my     brother's 

death?" 
Dola.     And  should  my  weakness  be  a  plea 

for  yours? 

Mine   was    an   age   when    love    might   be    ex- 
cused, 

When  kindly  warmth,  and  when  my   spring- 
ing youth 

Made  it  a  debt  to  nature.     Yours 

Vent.  Speak   boldly. 

Yours,  he  would  say,  in  your  declining  age, 
When   no  more   heat  was  left  but  what   you 

forced, 

When  all  the  sap  was  needful  for  the  trunk, 
When    it    went    down,    then    you    constrained 

the  course, 

And   robbed    from   nature,    to   supply   desire; 
In  you   (I   would   not  use  so   harsh  a   word) 
"Tis  but  plain  dotage. 
Ant.  Ha! 

Dola.  'Twas   urged   too  home. 

But  yet   the   loss  was   private,   that   I   made; 
'Twas  but   myself   I   lost:    I   lost   no  legions; 
I  had  no  world  to  lose,  no  people's  love. 
Ant.     This  from  a  friend? 
Dola.  Yes,   Antony,    a   true    one; 

A  friend  so  tender,   that  each  word   I   speak 
Stabs    my    own   heart,    before   it   reach    your 

ear. 


Oh,     judge    me     not     less     kind,     because     I 

chide! 
To  Caesar   I   excuse  you. 

Ant.  O  ye  gods! 

Have  I   then  lived  to  be  excused   to  Caesar? 
Dola.     As   to  your  equal. 
Ant.  Well,  he's  but  my  equal: 

While   I  wear   this,  he   never   shall   be   more. 
Dola.     I    bring    conditions    from    him. 
Ant.  Are   they    noble? 

Methinks  thou  shouldst  not  bring  'em  else; 

yet  he 

Is  full  of  deep  dissembling;  knows  no  honor 
Divided    from     his    interest.      Fate     mistook 

him; 

For  nature  meant  him  for  an  usurer: 
He's  fit  indeed  to  buy,  not  conquer  kingdoms. 

Vent.     Then,  granting  this, 
What    power    was    theirs,    who    wrought    so 

hard  a   temper 
To  honorable  terms? 

Ant.     It   was   my   Dolabella,   or   some   god. 
Dola.     Nor     I,      nor     yet      Maecenas,      nor 

Agrippa: 

They  were  your  enemies;  and  I,  a  friend, 
Too  weak  alone;   yet   'twas  a  Roman's   deed. 
Ant.     'Twas  like  a  Roman  done:   show  me 

that  man, 
Who    has    preserved    my    life,    my    love,    my 

honor; 
Let  me  but  see  his  face. 

Vent.  That    task    is    mine, 

And,  Heaven,  thou  know'st  how  pleasing. 

[Exit    VENTIDIUS. 

Dola.  You'll    remember 

To  whom  you  stand  obliged? 

Ant.  When  I  forget  it, 

Be    thou    unkind,    and    that's    my    greatest 

curse. 
My   queen   shall   thank  him  too. 

Dola.  I  fear  she  will  not. 

.     Ant.     But  she  shall  do  it.    The  queen,  my 

Dolabella! 
Hast    thou    not   still   some   grudgings    of   thy 

fever  ? 

Dola.     I   would   not   see   her  lost. 
Ant.  When  I   forsake  her, 

Leave    me,    my    better    stars!    for    she    has 

truth 

Beyond   her  beauty.     Caesar  tempted  her, 
At    no   less   price   than   kingdoms,    to    betray 

me; 

But  she  resisted  all:  and  yet  thou  chid'st  me 
For  loving  her  too  well.     Could  I  do  so? 
Dola.     Yes;   there's  my   reason. 

Re-enter     VENTIDIUS,     with     OCTAVIA,     leading 
ANTONY'S  two  little  Daughters. 

Ant.       [starting      back].      Where  ?— Octavia 

there ! 
I'cnt.     What,    is    she    poison    to    you?— a 

disease? 
Look   on   her,   view   her  well,   and   those   she 

brings: 


58 


ALL  FOR  LOVE 


ACT  III,  So.  I. 


Are    they    all    strangers    to    your    eyes?    has 

nature 

No   secret   call,   no   whisper  they   are   yours? 
Dola.     For  shame,  my  lord,  if  not  for  love, 

receive   'em 

With  kinder  eyes.     If  you  confess  a  man, 
Meet  'em,  embrace  'em,  bid  'em  welcome  to 

you. 
Your   arms    should  open,   even  without  your 

knowledge, 
To   clasp   'em   in;    your   feet    should   turn   to 

wings, 

To  bear  you  to  'em;  and  your  eyes  dart  out 
And    aim    a    kiss,    ere    you    could    reach    the 

lips. 
Ant.     I    stood   amazed,   to    think    how    they 

came  hither. 
Vent.     I    sent    for   'em;    I    brought    'em   in 

unknown 
To  Cleopatra's  guards. 

Dola.  Yet,  are  you  cold? 

Octav.     Thus  long  I  have  attended  for  my 

welcome ; 

Which,   as -a  stranger,   sure  I   might  expect. 
Who  am  I? 

Ant.  Caesar's    sister. 

Octal'.  That's  unkind. 

Had  I  been  nothing  more  than  Caesar's  sis- 
ter, 
Know,     I     had     still     remained     in     Caesar's 

camp: 

But  your  Octavia,  your  much  injured  wife, 
Though  banished  from  your  bed,  driven  from 

your   house, 

In  spite  of  Caesar's  sister,  still  is  yours. 
'Tis  true,  I  have  a  heart  disdains  your  cold- 
ness, 
And  prompts  me  not  to  seek  what  you  should 

offer; 
But    a    wife's    virtue    still    surmounts    that 

pride. 

I  come   to  claim  you  as  my  own;  to  show 
My   duty   first;    to   ask,   nay  beg,   your  kind- 
ness. 

Your    hand,    my    lord;    'tis   mine,    and    I    will 
have  it.  [Taking  liis  hand. 

Vent.     Do,   take   it;   thou   deserv'st   it. 
Dola.  On   my    soul, 

And   so   she   does:   she's   neither   too   submis- 
sive, 

Nor  yet  too  haughty;  but  so  just  a  mean 
Shows,   as   it  ought,   a   wife  and   Roman   too. 
./;:/.     I     fear,    Octavia,    you    have    begged 

my  life. 

Octav.     Begged  it,  my  lord? 
Ant.          Yes,  begged  it,  my  ambassadress; 
Poorly  and  basely  begged  it  of  your  brother. 
Octav.     Poorly    and    basely    I    could    never 

beg: 
Nor  could  my  brother  grant. 

Ant.     Shall   I,   who,   to  my   kneeling   slave, 

could   say, 

"Rise  up,  and  be  a  king;"  shall  I  fall  down 
And  cry,  "  Forgive  me,  Caesar !  "    Shall  I  set 


A  man,  my  equal,  in  the  place  of  Jove, 
As  he  could  give  me  being?     No;  that  word, 
"  Forgive,"  would  choke  me  up, 
And  die  upon  my  tongue. 

Dola.  You  shall  not  need  it. 

Ant.     I  will  not  need  it.    Come,  you've  all 

betrayed   me, — 

My   friend  too! — to   receive   some  vile   condi- 
tions. 
My    wife   has   bought   me,   with   her   prayers 

and   tears ; 

And  now  I  must  become  her  branded  slave. 
In   every   peevish  mood,   she  will   upbraid 
The  life  she  gave:  if  I  but  look  awry, 
She  cries,  "  I'll  tell  my  brother." 

Octav.  My    hard    fortune 

Subjects  me  still  to  your  unkind  mistakes. 
But  the  conditions  I  have  brought  are  such 
You  need  not  blush  to  take;  I  love  your 

honor, 

Because  'tis  mine;  it  never  shall  be  said, 
Octavia's    husband   was    her    brother's    slave. 
Sir,   you   are   free;    free,   even   from   her   you 

loathe; 
For,    though    my   brother   bargains    for   your 

love, 
Makes    me    the    price    and    cement    of    your 

peace, 

I  have  a  soul  like  yours;   I   cannot  take 
Your  love  as  alms,  nor  beg  what   I   deserve. 
I'll  tell  my  brother  we  are  reconciled; 
He    shall    draw    back    his    troops,    and    you 

shall  march 

To  rule  the  East;  I  may  be  dropt  at  Athens; 
No  matter  where.     I  never  will  complain, 
But  only  keep  the  barren  name  of  wife, 
And  rid  you  of  the  trouble. 

Vent.     Was    ever    such    a    strife    of    sullen 

honor ! 
Both  scorn  to  be  obliged. 

/'./.;.     Oh,    she    has    touched    him    in    the 

tenderest  part; 

See  how  he  reddens  with  despite  and  shame, 
To  be  outdone  in  generosity ! 

Vent.     See  how  he  winks!  how  he  dries  up 

a  tear, 
That  fain  would  fall! 

Ant.     Octavia,     I     have     heard     you,     and 

must  praise 

The    greatness   of   your   soul; 
But  cannot  yield  to  what  you  have  proposed: 
For  I  can  ne'er  be  conquered  but  by  love; 
And    you    do   all   for   duty.     You    would    free 

me, 

And  would  be  dropt  at  Athens;  was't  not  so? 
Octav.     It  was,   my   lord. 
Ant.  Then  I   must  be  obliged 

To  one  who  loves  me  not;  who,  to  herself, 
May      call     me      thankless     and     ungrateful 

man: — 
I'll   not  endure  it;  no. 

Vent,  [aside}.        I  am  glad  it  pinches  there. 
Octav.     Would   you  triumph   o'er  poor  Oc- 
tavia's virtue? 


59 


ACT  III,  Sc.  I. 


ALL  FOR  LOVE 


That  pride  was  all  I   had  to  bear  me  up; 
That  you  might  think  you  owed  me  for  your 

life, 

And  owed  it   to  my   duty,   not  my  love. 
I   have   been   injured,    and   my   haughty   soul 
Could  brook  but  ill  the  man  who  slights  my 

bed. 

Ant.     Therefore  you  love  me  not. 
Octal-.  Therefore,    my    lord, 

I    should    not    love    you. 

Ant.  Therefore  you  would  leave  me? 

Octav.     And  therefore  I  should  leave  you — 

if   I  could. 
Dola.     Her    soul's    too    great,    after    such 

injuries, 

To  say  she  loves;  and  yet  she  lets  you  see  it. 
Her  modesty  and  silence  plead  her  cause. 

A nt.     O  Dolabella,  which  way  shall  I  turn? 
I  find  a  secret  yielding   in  my  soul; 
But  Cleopatra,  who  would   die   with  me, 
Must  she  be  left?     Pity  pleads  for  Octavia; 
But  does  it  not  plead  more  for  Cleopatra? 
Vent.     Justice    and    pity     both    plead    for 

Octavia; 

For   Cleopatra,    neither. 

One  would  be  ruined  with  you;  but  she  first 
Had  ruined  you:  the  other,  you  have  ruined, 
And  yet  she  would  preserve  you. 
In  everything  their  merits  are  unequal. 
Ant.     O  my   distracted  soul! 
Octav.  Sweet   heaven   compose  it! — 

Come,  come,  my  lord,  if  I  can  pardon  you, 
Methinks    you    should    accept    it.    Look    on 

these; 
Are    they    not    yours?    or    stand    they    thus 

neglected, 

As  they  are  mine?  Go  to  him,  children,  go; 
Kneel  to  him,  take  him  by  the  hand,  speak 

to    him ; 
For   you   may    speak,   and   he   may   own   you 

too, 

Without  a  blush;   and  so   he   cannot   all 
His  children:  go,   I  say,  and  pull  him  to  me, 
And  pull    him   to  yourselves,   from   that   bad 

woman. 

You,  Agrippina,  hang  upon  his  arms; 
And  you,  Antonia,  clasp  about  his  waist: 
If  he  will  shake  you  off,  if  he  will  dash  you 
Against    the    pavement,    you    must    bear    it, 

children ; 

For  you  are  mine,  and  I  was  born  to  suffer. 
[Here  the  Children  go  to  him,  etc. 
Vent.     Was    ever   sight    so    moving?— Em- 
peror ! 

Dola.     Friend ! 
Octav.         Husband ! 
Both  Child.        Father! 

Ant.  I  am  vanquished:  take  me, 

Octavia;  take  me,  children;  share  me  all. 

[Embracing    them. 

I've  been  a  thriftless  debtor  to  your  loves, 
And  run  out  much,  in  riot,  from  your  stock; 
But  all  shall  be  amended. 

Octav.  O  blest  hour! 


/'.'/.:.     O  happy  change! 

Vent.  My   joy   stops  at   my    tongue; 

But  it  has  found  two  channels  here  for  one, 
And   bubbles  out  above. 

Ant.     [to     OCTAV.].    This    is    thy     triumph; 

lead  me  where  thou  wilt; 
Even  to  thy  brother's  camp. 

Octav.  All  there  are  yours. 

Enter  ALEXAS  hastily. 

Alex.     The    queen,    my    mistress,    sir,    and 

yours 

Ant.  'Tis  past.— 

Octavia,     you     shall     stay     this     night;     to- 
morrow, 
Caesar   and   we   are  one. 

[Exit  leading  OCTAVIA;  DOLABELLA  and  the 

Children  follow. 

Vent.     There's    news    for    you;     run,     my 
officious    eunuch, 

Be  sure  to  be  the  first;  haste  forward: 
Haste,    my    dear    eunuch,    haste.  [Exit. 

Alex.     This    downright    fighting    fool,    this 

thick-skulled    hero, 

This   blunt,   unthinking  instrument  of  death, 
With  plain   dull  virtue   has  outgone  my  wit. 
Pleasure  forsook  my  earliest  infancy; 
The   luxury   of  others   robbed   my   cradle, 
And  ravished  thence  the  promise  of  a  man. 
Cast   out   from   nature,   disinherited 
Of  what  her  meanest  children  claim  by  kind, 
Yet  greatness  kept  me  from  contempt;  that's 

gone. 

Had   Cleopatra  followed   my   advice, 
Then    he    had   been    betrayed    who    now    for- 
sakes. 
She    dies    for   love;    but    she   has    known    its 

joys: 

Gods,  is  this  just,  that  I,  who  know  no  joys, 
Must  die,  because  she   loves? 

Enter  CLEOPATRA,   CHARMION,   IRAS,  Train. 

0  madam,  I  have  seen  what  blasts  my  eyes! 
Octavia's   here. 

Cleo.  Peace   with   that   raven's   note. 

1  know  it  too;  and  now  am  in 
The  pangs   of  death. 

Alex.  You  are  no  more  a  queen; 

Egypt    is    lost. 

Cleo.  What  tell'st  thou  me  of  Egypt? 

My  life,  my  soul  is  lost !    Octavia  has  him ! — 
O   fatal    name    to    Cleopatra's   love! 
My   kisses,  my   embraces  now  are  hers; 

While    I But    thou    hast    seen    my    rival; 

speak, 

Does  she  deserve  this  blessing?    Is  she  fair? 
Bright  as   a   goddess?   and   is   all   perfection 
Confined  to  her?    It  is.     Poor  I  was  made 
Of  that  coarse  matter,  which,  when   she  was 

finished, 
The  gods  threw  by  for  rubbish. 

Alex.     She's    indeed    a    very    miracle. 

Cleo.     Death  to  my  hopes,  a  miracle! 


60 


ALL  FOR  LOVE 


ACT  III,  Sc.  I. 


Alex,    [bowing].  A    miracle; 

I   mean  of  goodness;  for  in  beauty,   madam, 
You  make  all  wonders  cease. 

Clco.  I  was  too  rash: 

Take    this   in  part   of   recompense.    But,   oh! 
[Giving  a  ring. 
I  fear  thou  flatterest  me. 

Char.     She  comes!  she's  here! 

Iras.  Fly,  madam,  Cesar's  sister! 

Cleo.    Were  she  the  sister  of  the  thunderer 

Jove, 
And    bore    her    brother's    lightning    in     her 

eyes, 
Thus  would  I  face  my  rival. 

[Meets  OCTAVIA  with  VENTIDIUS.  OCTAVIA 
bears  up  to  her.  Their  Trains  come 
up  on  either  side. 

Octav.     I    need    not   ask    if   you   are    Cleo- 
patra; 
Your   haughty   carriagi 


Cleo. 


Shows  I  am  a  queen; 


Nor  need  I  ask  you,  who  you  are. 

Octav.  A  Roman; 

A    name,     that    makes     and    can    unmake    a 

queen. 
Cleo.     Your  lord,  the  man  who  serves  me, 

is  a  Roman. 
Octav.     He  was  a  Roman,  till  he  lost  that 

name, 

To  be  a  slave  in  Egypt;  but  I  come 
To  free  him  thence. 


Cleo. 


Peace,  peace,  my   lover's  Juno. 


When  he  grew  weary  of  that  household  clog, 

He   chose  my   easier   bonds. 

Octav.  I  wonder  not 

Your   bonds   are   easy;   you    have   long    been 
practised 

In  that  lascivious  art.    He's  not  the  first 

For     whom     you     spread     your     snares:     let 

Caesar  witness. 

Cleo.     I   loved  not  Caesar;   'twas  but  grati- 
tude 

I  paid  his  love.    The  worst  your  malice  can, 

Is   but   to   say   the   greatest   of    mankind 

Has  been  my  slave.    The  next,  but  far  above 
him 

In   my   esteem,   is   he  whom  law   calls  yours, 

But  whom   his  love  made  mine. 

Octav.    [coming   up    close   to   her].     I   would 
view  nearer 

That    face,    which    has    so    long    usurped    my 
right, 

To  find  the  inevitable  charms,  that  catch 

Mankind   so  sure,   that  ruined   my  dear  lord. 
('/(•(/.     Oh,  you  do  well   to  search;   for   had 
you  known 

But  half  these  charms,  you  had  not  lost  his 

heart. 

Octav.     Far    be    their    knowledge    from    a 
Roman   lady, 

Far  from  a  modest  wife!    Shame  of  our  sex, 

Dost  thou  not  blush   to  own  those  black  en- 
dearments, 

That  make  sin  pleasing? 


Cleo.  You  may   blush,  who  want  'em. 

If  bounteous  nature,   if  indulgent   heaven 
Have  given  me  charms  to  please  the  bravest 

man, 
Should     I     not     thank     'em?    Should     I     be 

ashamed, 
And  not  be  proud?    I  am,  that  he  has  loved 

me; 
And,   when    I   love    not   him,   heaven    change 

this   face 
For  one  like  that. 

Octav.  Thou  lov'st  him  not  so  well. 

Cleo.     I   love  him  better,  and  deserve  him 

more. 
Octav.     You     do     not;     cannot:     you     have 

been  his  ruin. 

Who   made    him    cheap   at   Rome,    but    Cleo- 
patra? 

Who    made    him    scorned    abroad,    but    Cleo- 
patra? 

At    Actium,    who    betrayed    him?    Cleopatra. 
Who    made    his    children   orphans,    and    poor 

me 
A  wretched   widow?  only   Cleopatra. 

Cleo.     Yet    she,    who    loves    him    best,     is 

Cleopatra. 

If  you   have  suffered,    I   have,  suffered  more. 
You   bear    the   specious    title   of    a    wife, 
To    gild    your    cause,    and    draw    the    pitying 

world 

To  favor  it;  the  world  contemns  poor  me, 
For  I  have  lost  my  honor,  lost  my  fame, 
And  stained  the  glory  of  my  royal  house, 
And   all    to   bear   the   branded    name   of   mis- 
tress. 
There   wants  but  life,  and  that   too   I  would 

lose 
For  him  I  love. 

Octav.  Be't   so,   then;   take   thy   wish. 

[Exit  cum  suis. 
Cleo.     And    'tis    my   wish, 
Now  he  is  lost   for  whom  alone   I  lived. 
My     sight     grows     dim,     and     every     object 

dances, 

And  swims  before  me,  in  the  maze  of  death. 
My    spirits,    while    they   were    opposed,    kept 

up; 

They  could  not  sink  beneath  a  rival's  scorn! 
But  now  she's   gone,  they  faint. 

Alex.  Mine  have   had  leisure 

To     recollect     their     strength,     and     furnish 

counsel, 
To  ruin  her,  who  else  must  ruin  you. 

Cleo.  Vain  promiser! 

Lead  me,  my  Charmion;  nay,  your  hand  too, 

Iras. 
My    grief    has    weight    enough    to    sink    you 

both. 

Conduct  me  to  some  solitary  chamber, 
And    draw    the    curtains    round; 
Then  leave  me  to  myself,   to  take  alone 
My    fill   of   grief: 

There     I     till    death    will    his    unkindness 

weep; 


61 


ACT  IV,  Sc.  I. 


ALL  FOR  LOVE 


As      harmless      infants      moan     themselves 
asleep.  [Exeunt. 

ACT  IV 

SCENE   I 
Enter  ANTONY   and   DOLABELLA. 

Dola.     Why  would  you  shift  it  from  your- 
self on  me? 
Can  you  not  tell  her,  you  must  part? 

Ant.  I   cannot. 

I   could  pull  out  an  eye,   and   bid   it   go, 
And    t'other    should   not   weep.     O    Dolabella, 
How    many    deaths    are    in    this   word,    "  De- 
part !  " 

I  dare  not  trust  my  tongue  to  tell  her  so: 
One  look  of  hers  would  thaw  me  into  tears, 
And  I  should  melt,  till  I  were  lost  again. 

Dola.     Then  let  Ventidius; 
He's   rough    by    nature. 

Ant.  O,  he'll  speak  too  harshly; 

He'll  kill  her  with  the  news:  thou,  only  thou. 

Dola.     Nature    has    cast    me   in    so    soft    a 

mould, 

That  but  to  hear  a  story,  feigned  for  pleas- 
ure, 

Of  some  sad  lover's  death,  moistens  my  eyes, 
And  robs  me  of  my  manhood.  I  should 

speak 
So    faintly,    with    such    fear    to    grieve    her 

heart, 
She'd  not  believe  it  earnest. 

Ant.  Therefore, — therefore 

Thou  only,  thou  art  fit.  Think  thyself  me; 
And  when  thou  speak'st  (but  let  it  first  be 

long), 

Take  off  the  edge  from  every  sharper  sound, 
And  let  our  parting  be  as  gently  made, 
As  other  loves  begin;  wilt  thou  do  this? 
Dola.     What   you   have    said   so   sinks   into 

my  soul, 

That,  if  I  must  speak,  I  shall  speak  just  so. 
Ant.     I  leave  you  then  to  your   sad  task: 

farewell. 
I   sent  her  word   to   meet  you. 

[Goes  to  the  door,  and  comes  back. 

I    forgot; 
Let    her   be   told,    I'll    make    her    peace   with 

mine: 
Her   crown  and   dignity   shall   be  preserved, 

If   I    have   power   with    Caesar. O,    be    sure 

To    think    on    that. 

Dola.  Fear  not,   I   will   remember. 

[ANTONY    goes    again    to    the    door,    and 

comes    back. 
Ant.     And   tell   her,   too,   how  much   I  was 

constrained; 

I  did  not  this,  but  with  extremest  force: 
Desire  her  not  to  hate  my   memory, 

For   I   still  cherish  hers; insist  on   that. 

Dola.     Trust  me,  I'll  not  forget  it. 
Ant.  Then  that's  all. 

[Goes   out,   and   returns   again. 


Wilt    thou    forgive    my    fondness    this    once 

more? 

Tell   her,   though  we   shall  never  meet  again, 
If  I   should  hear  she   took   another   love, 
The    news    would    break    my    heart. — Now    I 

must   go; 

Fcr  every   time   I   have   returned,   I   feel 
My    soul    more    tender;    and    my    next    com- 
mand 
Would  be,  to  bid  her  stay,  and  ruin  both. 

[Exit. 
Dola.     Men    are    but    children    of    a    larger 

growth; 

Our  appetites  as  apt  to  change  as  theirs, 
And  full  as  craving  too,  and  full  as  vain; 
And  yet  the  soul,  shut  up  in  her  dark  room, 
Viewing  so  clear  abroad,  at  home  sees  noth- 
ing; 

But,  like  a  mole  in  earth,  busy  and  blind, 
Works    all    her    folly    up,    and    casts    it    out- 
ward 

To  the  world's  open  view;  thus  I  discovered, 
And  blamed  the  love  of  ruined  Antony; 
Yet  wish  that  I  were  he,  to  be  so  ruined. 

Enter    VENTIDIUS   above. 

Vent.     Alone,     and     talking     to     himself? 

concerned  too? 
Perhaps    my    guess    is    right;    he    loved    her 

once, 
And  may   pursue  it   still. 

Dola.  O  friendship!  friendship! 

Ill    canst    thou     answer     this;     and    reason, 

worse: 

Unfaithful  in   the   attempt;   hopeless   to   win; 
And  if  I  win,  undone:  mere  madness  all. 
And    yet    the    occasion's    fair.    What    injury 
To  him,   to  wear   the   robe  which   he   throws 

by! 
Vent.     None,  none  at  all.    This  happens  as 

I   wish, 
To  ruin  her  yet  more  with  Antony. 

Enter  CLEOPATRA,  talking  with  ALEXAS;   CHAR- 
MION,    IRAS,   on  the  other  side. 

Dola.     She  comes!    What  charms  have  sor- 
row on   that  face ! 
Sorrow  seems  pleased  to  dwell  with  so  much 

sweetness; 

Yet,   now   and   then,  a   melancholy   smile 
Breaks    loose,    like    lightning    in    a    winter's 

night, 
And   shows    a   moment's    day. 

Vent.     If    she    should    love    him    too!    her 
eunuch    there  ? 
That    porc'pisce    bodes    ill    weather.       Draw, 

draw    nearer, 
Sweet  devil,  that  I  may  hear. 

Alex.  Believe  me;  try 

[DOLABELLA   goes  over  to    CHARM  ION    and 

IRAS;    seems   to   talk   with    them. 
To   make   him  jealous;   jealousy   is   like 


62 


ALL  FOR  LOVE 


ACT  IV,  Sc.  I. 


A  polished  glass  held  to  the  lips  when  life's 

in  doubt; 
If    there    be    breath,    'twill    catch    the    damp, 

and  show  it. 
Cleo.     I    grant   you,    jealousy's   a   proof  of 

love, 

But  'tis  a  weak  and  unavailing  medicine; 
It  puts  out  the  disease,  and  makes   it  show, 
But   has  no  power  to   cure. 

Alex.     Tis  your  last  remedy,  and  strong- 
est   too: 

And   then   this  Dolabella,   who  so   fit 
To     practise     on?    He's     handsome,     valiant, 

young, 

And  looks  as  he  were  laid  for  nature's  bait, 
To  catch  weak  women's  eyes. 
He  stands  already  more  than  half  suspected 
Of  loving  you;  the  least  kind  word  or  glance, 
You  give  this  youth,  will  kindle  him  with 

love: 

Then,  like  a  burning  vessel  set  adrift, 
You'll    send    him    down    amain     before     the 

wind, 
To  fire  the  heart  of  jealous  Antony. 

Cleo.     Can   I  do  this?     Ah,   no;  my  love's 

so   true, 

That   I   can   neither  hide  it  where   it   is, 
Nor  show  it  where  it  is  not.    Nature  meant 

me 

A  wife;  a  silly,  harmless,  household  dove, 
Fond  without  art,  and  kind  without  deceit; 
But  Fortune,  that  has  made  a  mistress  of 

me, 

Has   thrust   me  out   to   the  wide   world,   un- 
furnished 
Of  falsehood  to  be  happy. 

Alex.  Force  yourself. 

The  event  will  be,  your  lover  will  return, 
Doubly  desirous  to  possess  the  good 
Which   once   he  feared  to   lose. 

Cleo.  I   must  attempt   it; 

But    oh,    with    what   regret! 

[Exit    ALEXAS.      She    comes    up    to    DOLA- 
BELLA. 
Vent.     So,     now    the    scene    draws    near; 

they're  in  my  reach. 
Cleo.     \to    Do  LA.].      Discoursing    with    my 

women!    might    not    I 
Share    in    your    entertainment? 


Char. 


You   have   been 


The    subject    of    it,    madam. 

Cleo.  How!   and   how? 

Iras.     Such  praises  of  your  beauty! 
Cleo.  Mere   poetry. 

Your    Roman    wits,    your    Callus    and    Tibul- 

lus, 
Have    taught    you    this    from    Cytheris    and 

Delia. 
Dola.     Those  Roman  wits  have  never  been 

in    Egypt; 
Cytheris    and    Delia    else    had    been    unsung: 

I,  who  have  seen had   I  been  born  a  poet, 

Should  choose  a  nobler  name. 

Cleo.  You   flatter  me. 


But,    'tis    your 
country 


nation's    vice:    all    of    your 


Are   flatterers,    and    all    false.    Your    friend's 

like   you. 

I'm    sure,    he    sent   you   not    to    speak    these 
words. 

Dola.     No,  madam;  yet  he  sent  me 

Cleo.  Well,   he   sent   you 

Dola.     Of  a  less  pleasing  errand. 
Cleo.  How  less  pleasing? 

Less  to  yourself,  or  me? 

Dola.  Madam,  to  both; 

For  you  must  mourn,  and  I  must  grieve  to 

cause   it. 

Cleo.     You,     Charmion,     and    your    fellow, 
stand     at     distance. — 

[Aside]—  Hold  up,  my  spirits. Well,  now 

your  mournful  matter; 
For     I'm    prepared,    perhaps     can    guess     it 

too. 

Dola.     I  wish  you  would;  for  'tis  a  thank- 
less   office, 

To  tell  ill  news:  and  I,  of  all  your  sex, 
Most   fear   displeasing   you. 

Cleo.  Of  all  your  sex, 

I    soonest   could   forgive   you,    if   you   should. 
Vent.     Most    delicate    advances!      Women! 

Women ! 
Dear,    damned,    inconstant    sex ! 

Cleo.  In    the    first    place, 

I  am  to  be  forsaken;  is't  not  so? 

DoLi.     I   wish   I    could   not  answer   to   that 

question. 
Cleo.       Then     pass     it     o'er,      because     it 

troubles  you: 

I    should    have    been    more    grieved    another 
time. 

Next,    I'm    to   lose    my    kingdom Farewell, 

Egypt! 
Yet,  is   there  any   more? 

Dola.  Madam,  I  fear 

Your  too  deep  sense  of  grief  has  turned  your 

reason. 
Cleo.     No,    no,    I'm    not    run    mad;    I    can 

bear  fortune: 

And  love  may  be  expelled  by  other  love, 
As  poisons  are  by  poisons. 

Dola.  You  o'erjoy  me,  madam, 

Tc  find  your  griefs  so  moderately  borne. 
You've    heard    the    worst;    all    are    not    false 

like   him. 

Cleo.     No;   Heaven   forbid   they   should. 
Dola.  Some  men  are  constant. 

Cleo.      And     constancy     deserves     reward, 

that's  certain. 
Dola.     Deserves   it   not;   but   give   it   leave 

to   hope. 
Vent.     I'll   swear,    thou   hast   my   leave.     I 

have   enough: 

But    how    to    manage    this!      Well,    I'll    con- 
sider. [Exit. 
Dola.     I  came  prepared 

To    tell    you    heavy    news;    news,    which    I 
thought 


63 


ACT  IV,  Sc.  I. 


ALL  FOR  LOVE 


Would  fright  the  blood  from  your  pale  cheeks 

to  hear: 

But  you  have  met  it  with  a  cheerfulness, 
That    makes    my    task    more    easy;    and    my 

tongue, 

Which   on   another's  message   was   employed, 
Would  gladly  speak  its  own. 

Cleo.  Hold,    Dolabella. 

First  tell  me,  were  you  chosen  by  my  lord? 
Or    sought    you    this    employment? 

Dola.     He     picked    me    out;    and,    as    his 

bosom    friend, 
He   charged   me   with   his   words. 

Cleo.  The  message   then 

I  know  was  tender,  and  each  accent  smooth, 
To  mollify   that   rugged   word,   "  Depart." 
Dola.     Oh,     you     mistake;     he     chose     the 

harshest  words; 

With  fiery  eyes,  and  with,  contracted  brows, 
He   coined   his   face   in    the   severest   stamp; 
And    fury    shook    his    fabric,    like    an    earth- 
quake; 

He   heaved   for  vent,   and  burst   like  bellow- 
ing   /Etna, 
In   sounds    scarce   human — "  Hence   away   for 

ever, 

Let  her  begone,  the  blot  of  my  renown; 
And  bane  of  all  my  hopes! 

[All  the  time  of  this  speech,  CLEOPATRA 
seems  more  and  more  concerned,  till 
she  sinks  quite  down. 

Let  her  be  driven,  as  far  as  men  can  think, 
From  man's  commerce!   she'll  poison   to   the 

centre." 

Cleo.     Oh,  I  can  bear  no  more! 
Dola.     Help,    help!— O    wretch!      O    cursed, 

cursed  wretch! 
What   have   I   done! 

Char.  Help,  chafe  her  temples,  Iras. 

Iras.     Bend,  bend  her  forward  quickly. 
Char.  Heaven    be    praised, 

She  comes  again. 

Cleo.  O,  let  him  not  approach  me. 

Why    have    you    brought    me    back    to    this 

loathed   being, 

The   abode   of  falsehood,   violated   vows, 
And  injured  love?     For  pity,   let   me   go; 
For,   if   there  be  a  place   of   long   repose, 
I'm  sure  I  want  it.     My  disdainful  lord 
Can   never  break  that  quiet;  nor  awake 
The    sleeping     soul,    with    hollowing    in    my 

tomb 
Such    words    as    fright    her    hence. — Unkind, 

unkind ! 
Dola.    [kneeling].     Believe   me,   'tis   against 

myself    I    speak; 

That  sure  desires  belief;   I   injured  him: 
My  friend  ne'er  spoke   those  words.     O,   had 

you    seen 

How  often  he  came  back,  and  every  time 
With    something    more    obliging    and    more 

kind, 

To    add    to    what    he    said;    what    dear    fare- 
wells; 


How     almost     vanquished     by     his     love     he 

parted, 

And   leaned   to   what  unwillingly   he  left! 
I,   traitor  as   I   was,  for  love  of   you 
(But    what    can    you    not    do,    who    made    me 

false?) 
I    forged    that    lie;    for    whose    forgiveness 

kneels 

This   self-accused,   self-punished  criminal. 
Cleo.     With    how    much    ease    believe    we 

what  we  wish! 

Rise,   Dolabella;   if  you  have  been   guilty, 
I   have   contributed,   and   too   much   love 
Has  made  me  guilty  too. 
The  advance  of  kindness,  which  I  made,  was 

feigned, 

To   call   back   fleeting   love   by   jealousy; 
But    'twould    not    last.      Oh,    rather    let    me 

lose, 
Than  so  ignobly  trifle  with  his  heart. 

Dola.     I     find    your    breast     fenced    round 

from  human  reach, 

Transparent   as  a  rock  of   solid   crystal; 
Seen  through,  but  never  pierced.    My  friend, 

my  friend, 
What    endless    treasure    hast    thou    thrown 

away; 

And   scattered,  like  an   infant,   in   the   ocean, 
Vain  sums  of  wealth,  which  none  can  gather 

thence ! 

Cleo.     Could   you    not    beg 
An  hour's  admittance  to  his  private  ear? 
Like    one,    who    wanders    through    long    bar- 
ren wilds 

And  yet  foreknows  no  hospitable  inn 
Is   near  to   succor   hunger,    eats  his   fill, 
Before   his   painful   march; 
So   would   I   feed  a  while   my   famished   eyes 
Before   we  part;    for   I   have   far    to   go, 
If  death  be  far,  and  never  must  return. 

VENTIDIUS  with  OCTAVIA,   behind. 

Vent.     From  hence  you  may   discover — oh, 

sweet,   sweet! 
Would    you    indeed?      The    pretty    hand    in 

earnest  ? 

Dola.  [takes  her  hand].     I  will,  for  this  re- 
ward.    Draw  it   not  back. 
Tis  all  I  e'er  will  beg. 

Vent.     They  turn  upon  us. 
Octav.  What  quick  eyes  has  guilt! 

Vent.     Seem    not    to    have    observed    'em, 
and  go  on. 

They    enter. 

Dola.     Saw  you   the  emperor,  Ventidius? 
Vent.  No. 

I    sought    him;    but    I    heard    that    he    was 

private, 
None    with    him   but   Hipparchus,    his    freed- 

man. 

Dola.     Know   you    his   business? 
Vent.  Giving  him  instructions, 

And   letters   to  his  brother  Caesar. 


64 


ALL  FOR  LOVE 


ACT  IV,  Sc.  I. 


Dola.  Well, 

He   must   be   found. 

[Exeunt  DOLABELLA  and   CLEOPATRA. 
Octal-.  Most  glorious  impudence! 

Vent.     She  looked,  methought, 
As    she    would    say,    "  Take    your    old    man, 

Octavia; 
Thank  you,    I'm   better   here.' 


Make  we  of  this  discovery? 

Octav. 


Well,  but  what  use 


Let  it  die. 

Vent.     I  pity  Dolabella;   but  she's  danger- 
ous: 

Her     eyes     have     power     beyond     Thessalian 
charms, 

To    draw    the    moon    from    heaven;    for    elo- 
quence, 

The  sea-green  Sirens  taught  her  voice  their 
flattery; 

And,    while    she    speaks,    night    steals    upon 
the   day, 

Unmarked    of    those    that   hear.     Then   she's 
so  charming, 

Age    buds    at    sight    of    her,    and    swells    to 
youth: 

The    holy    priests    gaze    on    her    when    she 
smiles; 

And   with    heaved   hands,   forgetting   gravity, 

They    bless    her    wanton    eyes:    even    I,    who 
hate   her, 

With    a   malignant   joy    behold    such   beauty; 

And,    while    I    curse,    desire   it.     Antony 

Must   needs    have   some    remains    of    passion 
still, 

Which    may    ferment    into    a    worse    relapse, 

If  now  not  fully  cured.    I  know,  this  minute, 

With   Caesar   he's   endeavoring   her  peace. 

Octav.     You    have    prevailed: but    for    a 

further   purpose.  [Walks   off. 

I'll   prove  how  he  will  relish   this  discovery. 

What,    make    a    strumpet's    peace!    it    swells 
my  heart: 

It  must  not,  shall  not  be. 

Vent.  His    guards    appear. 

Let  me  begin,  and  you  shall  second  me. 

Enter  ANTONY. 

Ant.  Octavia,  I  was  looking  you,  my  love: 
What,  are  your  letters  ready?  I  have  given 
My  last  instructions. 


Octav. 


Mine,  my  lord,  are  written. 


Ant.     Ventidius.  [Drawing  him  aside. 

Vent.  My  lord? 

Ant.  A  word  in  private.— 

When   saw  you   Dolabella? 

Vent.  Now,  my  lord, 

He    parted   hence;    and    Cleopatra    with   him. 

Ant.     Speak     softly.— 'Twas    by    my     com- 
mand he  went, 
To  bear  my  last  farewell. 

Vent,  [aloud}.  It    looked    indeed 

Like   your   farewell. 

Ant.  More  softly.— My  farewell? 


What    secret    meaning    have    you    in    those 

words 

Of—"  My  farewell  ?  "    He  did  it  by  my  order. 
Vent,  [aloud].    Then  he  obeyed  your  order. 

I  suppose 

You  bid   him  do  it   with   all   gentleness, 
Al!  kindness,  and  all  -  love. 

Ant.  How  she  mourned, 

The  poor  forsaken  creature! 

Vent.     She  took  it  as  she  ought;  she  bore 

your  parting 

As  she  did   Caesar's,  as  she  would  another's, 
Were  a   new   love   to   come. 


Ant.    [aloud]. 


Thou    dost    belie    her; 


Most   basely,    and  maliciously   belie   her. 
Vent.     I    thought    not    to    displease    you;    I 

have   done. 
Octav.  [coming  up].    You  seemed  disturbed, 

my   lord. 

Ant.  A  very  trifle. 

Retire,  my  love. 

Vent.  It  was  indeed  a  trifle. 

He  sent 

Ant.    [angrily].    No  more.     Look  how  thou 

disobey 'st  me; 
Thy  life   shall  answer  it. 

Octav.  Then    'tis    no    trifle. 

Vent,    [to  OCTAV.].    'Tis  less;  a  very  noth- 
ing:   you    too   saw   it, 

As   well   as    I,   and   therefore    'tis    no   secret. 
Ant.     She  saw  it! 

Vent.        Yes:   she   saw  young  Dolabella 

Ant.     Young  Dolabella! 

Vent.  Young,  I  think  him  young, 

And   handsome  too;  and   so  do  others   think 

him. 

But  what  of  that?     He  went  by  your  com- 
mand, 

Indeed    'tis    probable,    with    some    kind    mes- 
sage; 

For  she  received  it  graciously;  she  smiled; 
And  then  he  grew  familiar  with  her  hand, 
Squeezed  it,  and  worried  it  with  ravenous 

kisses; 
She    blushed,    and    sighed,    and    smiled,    and 

blushed  again; 

At  last  she  took   occasion   to  talk   softly, 
And  brought  her  cheek  up  close,  and  leaned 

on  his; 

At  which,  he  whispered  kisses  back  on  hers; 
And  then  she  cried  aloud  that  constancy 
Should  be  rewarded. 

Octav.  This    I    saw   and   heard. 

Ant.     What     woman     was     it,     whom     you 

heard   and    saw 

So  playful  with  my  friend?    Not  Cleopatra? 
Vent.     Even  she,  my  lord. 
Ant.  My    Cleopatra? 

Vent.     Your    Cleopatra; 

Dolabella's  Cleopatra;  every  man's  Cleopatra. 
Ant.     Thou   liest. 

Vent.  I  do  not  lie,  my  lord. 

Is    this    so    strange?     Should    mistresses    be 
left, 


65 


ACT  IV,  Sc.  I. 


ALL  FOR  LOVE 


And   not   provide   against   a  time   of   change? 
You    know    she's    not    much    used    to    lonely 

nights. 

Ant.     I'll  think  no  more  on't. 
I    know   'tis    false,   and   see   the   plot  betwixt 

you. — 

You  needed  not  have  gone  this  way,  Octavia. 
What  harms  it  you  that  Cleopatra's  just? 
She's   mine   no    more.     I    see,   and   I    forgive: 
Urge  it  no  farther,  love. 


Octar. 


Are    you    concerned, 


That  she's  found  false? 

Ant.  I  should  be,  were  it  so; 

For,   though  'tis  past,   I   would  not   that   the 

world 
Should   tax   my   former   choice,    that    I    loved 

one 

Of  so  light  note;  but  I  forgive  you  both. 
Vent.     What    has    my    age    deserved,    that 

you   should  think 

I   would  abuse  your  ears  with  perjury? 
If  heaven  be  true,  she's  false. 

Ant.  Though  heaven  and  earth 

Should  witness  it,  I'll  not  believe  her  tainted. 

Vent.     I'll  bring  you,  then,  a  witness 
From    hell,    to    prove    her    so. — Nay,    go    not 
back; 

[Seeing   ALEXAS   just   entering,    and    start- 
ing back. 
For  stay  you  must  and  shall. 


Alex. 


What  means  my  lord? 


Vent.     To    make    you    do    what    most    you 

hate, — speak   truth. 

You   are   of   Cleopatra's   private   counsel, 
Of  her  bed-counsel,  her  lascivious  hours; 
Are    conscious    of    each    nightly    change    she 

makes, 

And  watch  her,  as  Chaldaeans   do   the  moon, 
Can    tell    what    signs    she    passes    through, 

what    day. 

Alex.     My    noble    lord! 

Vent.  My    most    illustrious    pander, 

No    fine    set    speech,    no    cadence,    no    turned 

periods, 

But  a  plain   homespun  truth,  is  what  I  ask: 
I  did,  myself,  o'erhear  your  queen  make  love 
To    Dolabella.     Speak;    for   I    will    know, 
By   your    confession,    what   more    passed   be- 
twixt   'em ; 

How   near   the   business   draws    to   your   em- 
ployment; 
And  when  the  happy  hour. 

Ant.     Speak   truth,   Alexas;   whether  it  of- 
fend 

Or  please   Ventidius,   care   not.     Justify 
Thy    injured    queen    from    malice;    dare    his 

worst. 

Octav.  [aside].    See  how  he  gives  him  cour- 
age! how  he  fears 
To    find    her    false!    and    shuts    his    eyes    to 

truth, 
Willing  to  be   misled! 

Alex.     As     far     as     love     may     plead     for 
woman's   frailty, 


Urged  by  desert  and   greatness  of  the  lover, 
So  far,  divine  Octavia,  may  my  queen 
Stand   even    excused    to    you    for    loving    him 
Who   is  your  lord:    so  far,  from  brave   Ven- 
tidius, 

May  her  past  actions  hope  a  fair  report. 
Ant.     Tis    well,    and    truly    spoken:    mark, 

Ventidius. 
Alex.     To    you,    most    noble    emperor,    her 

strong  passion 

Stands   not   excused,  but  wholly  justified. 
Her     beauty's     charms     alone,     without     her 

crown, 

From   Ind  and  Meroe  drew  the  distant  vows 
Of  sighing  kings;  and  at  her  feet  were   laid 
The  sceptres  of  the  earth,  exposed  on  heaps, 
To    choose    where    she    would    reign: 
She  thought  a  Roman  only  could  deserve  her, 
And,  of  all  Romans,   only   Antony; 
And,   to  be  less   than   wife  to  you,   disdained 
Their   lawful  passion. 

Ant.  'Tis    but    truth. 

Alex.     And     yet,     though     love,     and     your 

unmatched    desert, 
Have    drawn    her    from    the    due    regard    of 

honor, 

At    last    heaven    opened    her    unwilling    eyes 
To  see   the  wrongs   she  offered  fair  Octavia, 
Whose  holy   bed   she   lawlessly   usurped. 
The  sad  effects  of  this  improsperous  war 
Confirmed  those  pious  thoughts. 

Vent,  [aside}.  Oh,  wheel  you  there? 

Observe  him  now;  the  man  begins  to  mend, 
And     talk     substantial     reason.       Fear     not, 

eunuch ; 

The  emperor  has  given  thee  leave  to  speak. 
Alex.     Else    had    I    never   dared    to    offend 

his    ears 

With  what  the  last  necessity  has  urged 
On    my    forsaken    mistress;    yet    I    must    not 
Presume  to  say,  her  heart  is  wholly  altered. 
Ant.     No,    dare   not  for   thy   life,   I    charge 

thee  dare  not 
Pronounce    that   fatal    word! 

Octav.    [aside}.    Must    I    bear    this?     Good 

heaven,    afford   me   patience. 
Vent.     On,    sweet    eunuch;    my    dear    half- 
man,  proceed. 
Alex.     Yet    Dolabella 
Has    loved    her    long;    he,    next   my    god-like 

lord, 

Deserves  her  best;  and  should  she  meet  his 
passion, 

Rejected,  as  she  is,  by  him  she  loved 

Ant.     Hence     from    my    sight!    for    I     can 

bear  no  more: 

Let  furies  drag  thee  quick  to  hell;  let  all 
The  longer  damned  have  rest;  each  torturing 

hand 

Do    thou   employ,    till    Cleopatra   comes; 
Then  join  thou  too,  and  help  to  torture  her! 
[Exit  ALEXAS,  thrust  out  by  ANTONY. 
Octav.     'Tis  not  well, 
Indeed,  my  lord,  'tis  much  unkind  to  me, 


66 


ALL  FOR  LOVE 


ACT  IV,  Sc.  I. 


To     show     this    passion,     this    extreme    con- 
cernment, 

For   an    abandoned,    faithless   prostitute. 
Ant.     Octavia,   leave  me;   I   am   much   dis- 
ordered: 

Leave  me,  I  say. 

Octav.  My   lord! 

Ant.  I    bid    you    leave    me. 

Vent.     Obey    him,    madam;    best    withdraw 
a  while, 

And  see  how  this  will  work. 

Octav.     Wherein   have  I   offended  you,   my 
lord, 

That  I  am  bid  to  leave  you?     Am  I  false, 

Or   infamous?     Am    I   a  Cleopatra? 

Were  I   she, 

Base   as   she  is,  you  would  not  bid  me  leave 
you; 

But  hang  upon  my  neck,  take  slight  excuses, 

And  fawn  upon  my  falsehood. 

Ant.  'Tis  too  much. 

Too   much,   Octavia;   I   am  pressed  with  sor- 
rows 

Too  heavy   to  be  borne;   and  you  add   more: 

I   would  retire,   and  recollect  what's  left 

Of    man    within,    to    aid   me. 

Octal'.  You  would  mourn, 

In  private,  for  your  love,  who  has  betrayed 
you. 

You   did   but   half  return   to  me;   your  kind- 
ness 

Lingered  behind  with  her.     I  hear,   my   lord, 

You    make    conditions    for    her, 

And    would    include    her    treaty.      Wondrous 
proofs 

Of  love  to  me! 

Ant.  Are  you  my  friend,  Ventidius? 

Or  are  you  turned  a  Dolabella  too, 

And  let   this  Fury   loose? 

Vent.  O,    be    advised, 

Sweet    madam,    and   retire. 

Octav.     Yes,  I  will  go;  but  never  to  return. 

You    shall    no    more    be    haunted    with    this 
Fury. 

My   lord,  my  lord,  love  will  not  always  last, 

When   urged   with   long   unkindness   and  dis- 
dain: 

Take  her  again,  whom  you  prefer  to  me; 

She    stays    but    to    be    called.     Poor    cozened 
man! 

Let    a    feigned    parting    give    her    back    your 
heart, 

Which   a  feigned   love  first   got;   for   injured 
me, 

Though  my  just  sense  of  wrongs  forbid  my 
stay, 

My    duty    shall    be    yours. 

To  the  dear  pledges  of  our  former  love 

My  tenderness  and  care  shall  be  transferred, 

And  they  shall  cheer,  by  turns,  my  widowed 
nights: 

So,   take  my   last  farewell;  for   I   despair 

To   have   you   whole,   and   scorn    to   take   you 
half.  [Exit. 


Vent.     I   combat   heaven,    which   blasts   my 

best  designs: 

My   last   attempt  must  be   to  win   her  back; 

But    O !    I    fear    in    vain.  [Exit. 

Ant.     Why   was   I   framed   with   this  plain, 

honest  heart, 
Which   knows  not  to  disguise  its  griefs  and 

weakness, 
But    bears     its     workings     outward     to     the 

world? 

I    should   have   kept    the   mighty   anguish    in, 
And  forced  a  smile  at  Cleopatra's  falsehood; 
Octavia   had   believed  it,  and  had   stayed. 
But  I  am  made  a  shallow-forded  stream, 
Seen     to     the     bottom:     all     my     clearness 

scorned, 
And    all    my    faults    exposed. — See    where    he 

comes, 

Enter    DOLABELLA. 

Who  has  profaned  the  sacred  name  of  friend, 
And  worn  it  into  vileness! 

With  how  secure  a  brow,  and  specious  form, 
He  gilds  the  secret  villain!     Sure   that   face 
Was    meant    for    honesty;    but    heaven    mis- 
matched   it, 
And    furnished    treason    out    with    nature's 

pomp, 
To    make   its    work    more    easy. 

Dola.  O  my  friend! 

Ant.     Well,    Dolabella,    you    performed    my 
message? 

Dola.     I  did,  unwillingly. 

Ant.  Unwillingly? 

Was  it  so  hard  for  you  to  bear  our  parting? 
You  should  have  wished  it. 

Dola.  Why  ? 

Ant.  Because  you  love  me. 

And   she  received  my  message  with   as  true, 
With  as  unfeigned  a  sorrow  as  you  brought 
it? 

Dola.     She  loves  you,  even  to  madness. 

Ant.  O,  1  know  it. 

You,   Dolabella,   do  not  better  know 
How  much  she  loves  me.     And  should  I 
Forsake    this    beauty,    this    all-perfect    crea- 
ture? 

Dola.     I  could  not,  were  she  mine. 

Ant.  And  yet  you  first 

Persuaded  me:   how  come  you  altered  since? 

Dola.     I   said  at  first  I   was   not  fit  to   go; 
I    could    not    hear    her    sighs,    and    see    her 

tears, 

But  pity  must  prevail;  and  so,  perhaps, 
It  may  again  with  you;  for  I  have  promised, 
That  she  should  take  her  last  farewell;  and, 

see, 
She   comes   to   claim   my   word. 

Enter  CLEOPATRA. 

Ant.  False  Dolabella! 

Dola.     What's  false,  my  lord? 

Ant.  Why,   Dolabella's   false, 


67 


ACT  IV,  Sc.  I. 


ALL  FOR  LOVE 


And   Cleopatra's   false;   both   false  and  faith- 
less. 

Draw  near,   you  well-joined  wickedness,  you 
serpents, 

Whom   I   have  in  my  kindly   bosom  warmed, 

Till  I  am  stung  to  death. 

Dola.  My  lord,  have  I 

Deserved  to  be   thus  used? 

Cleo.  Can   heaven   prepare 

A  newer  torment?    Can  it  find  a  curse 

Beyond  our  separation? 

Ant.  Yes,  if  fate 

Be    just,    much    greater:    heaven    should    be 
ingenious 

In  punishing  such  crimes.    The  rolling  stone, 

And     gnawing    vulture,     were    slight    pains, 
invented 

When    Jove    was    young,    and    no    examples 
known 

Of  mighty  ills;  but  you  have  ripened  sin, 

To  such  a  monstrous  growth,  'twill  pose  the 
gods 

To  find  an  equal  torture.    Two,  two  such! — 

O,    there's    no    further    name, — two    such!    to 
me, 

To    me,    who    locked    my    soul    within    your 
breasts, 

Had    no   desires,   no   joys,    no   life,   but   you; 

When    half    the    globe    was    mine,    I    gave    it 
you 

In  dowry  with  my  heart;  I  had  no  use, 

No  fruit  of  all,   but  you;   a   friend  and   mis- 
tress 

Was    what    the   world   could    give.      O    Cleo- 
patra ! 

O  Dolabella!  how  could  you  betray 

This     tender    heart,    which    with    an    infant 
fondness 

Lay   lulled   betwixt    your   bosoms,    and   there 
slept, 

Secure  of  injured  faith? 

Dola.  If  she  has  wronged  you, 

Heaven,  hell,  and  you  revenge  it. 

Ant.  If   she   has   wronged   me! 

Thou   wouldst   evade    thy   part   of   guilt;   but 
swear 

Thou    lov'st    not    her. 

Dola.  Not  so  as  I  love  you. 

Ant.     Not   so?     Swear,   swear,   I    say,   thou 

dost  not  love  her. 

I  /"lit.     No    more    than    friendship    will    al- 
low. 
Ant.  No  more? 

Friendship    allows    thee    nothing;    thou    art 
perjured — 

And  yet  thou  didst  not  swear  thou  lov'st  her 
not; 

But  not  so  much,  no  more.    O  trifling  hypo- 
crite, 

Who   dar'st   not  own   to   her,    thou  dost    not 
love, 

Nor  own  to  me,  thou  dost!    Ventidius  heard 
it; 

Octavia    saw   it. 


Cleo.  They  are  enemies. 

Ant.     Alexas  is  not  so:  he,  he  confessed  it; 

He,  who,  next  hell,  best  knew  it,  he  avowed 
it. 

[To   DOLA.]    Why   do   I   seek   a   proof   beyond 
yourself  ? 

You,  whom   I  sent  to  bear  my  last  farewell, 

Returned,   to  plead  her  stay. 

Dola.  What  shall  I  answer? 

If  to  have  loved  be  guilt,  then  I  have  sinned; 

But  if  to  have  repented  of  that  love 

Can  wash  away   my   crime,   I   have   repented. 

Yet,   if   I  have  offended   past  forgiveness, 

Let  not  her  suffer;  she  is  innocent. 

Cleo.     Ah,  what  will  not  a  woman  do,  who 
loves? 

What    means    will    she   refuse,    to   keep    that 
heart, 

Where  all  her  joys  are  placed?    'Twas  I  en- 
couraged, 

'Twas   I   blew  up   the  fire   that   scorched   his 
soul, 

To    make    you    jealous,    and    by    that    regain 
you. 

But  all  in  vain;  I  could  not  counterfeit: 

In    spite    of    all    the    dams    my    love    broke 
o'er 

And  drowned  my  heart  again:  fate  took   the 
occasion; 

And     thus     one    minute's    feigning     has     de- 
stroyed 

My  whole  life's   truth. 

Ant.  Thin  cobweb  arts  of  falsehood; 

Seen,   and   broke   through   at  first. 

Dola.  Forgive  your  mistress. 

Cleo.     Forgive  your  friend. 

Ant.  You  have  convinced  yourselves. 

You  plead   each  other's  cause:  what   witness 
have  you, 

That   you  but  meant   to   raise  my   jealousy? 
Cleo.     Ourselves,    and    heaven. 
Ant.     Guilt    witnesses    for    guilt.      Hence, 
love  and  friendship! 

You  have  no  longer  place  in  human  breasts, 

These   two   have   driven  you  out.     Avoid   my 
sight! 

I  would  not  kill  the  man  whom  I  have  loved, 

And  cannot  hurt  the  woman;  but  avoid  me: 

I   do  not  know  how  long  I   can  be   tame; 

For,  if  I  stay  one  minute  more,   to  think 

How    I    am    wronged,    my    justice    and    re- 
venge 

Will  cry  so  loud  within  me,  that  my  pity 

Will  not  be  heard  for  either. 

Dola.  Heaven   has   but 

Our  sorrow  for  our  sins;   and   then  delights 

To   pardon    erring   man:    sweet   mercy   seems 

Its    darling    attribute,    which    limits    justice; 

As  if  there  were  degrees  in   infinite, 

And    infinite    would    rather    want    perfection) 

Than  punish   to  extent. 

Ant.  I    can   forgive 

A  foe;  but  not  a  mistress  and  a  friend. 

Treason  is  there  in  its  most  horrid  shape, 


68 


ALL  FOR  LOVE 


ACT  V,  Sc.  I. 


Where    trust    is    greatest;    and    the   soul    re- 
signed, 

Is   stabbed  by   its   own   guards:   I'll   hear   no 
more; 

Hence  from  my  sight  for  ever! 

Cleo.  How?  for  ever! 

I  cannot  go  one  moment  from  your  sight, 

And  must  I  go  for  ever? 

My   joys,    my    only   joys,   are   centered   here: 

What  place  have  I  to  go  to?    My  own  king- 
dom? 

That  I   have  lost   for  you.     Or  to  the  Rom- 
ans? 

They    hate    me    for    your    sake.     Or    must    I 
wander 

The    wide    world    o'er,    a    helpless,    banished 
woman, 

Banished    for    love    of    you;    banished    from 
you? 

Ay,    there's    the    banishment!     O,    hear    me; 
hear  me, 

With    strictest   justice;    for   I   beg   no  favor; 

And  if  I  have  offended  you,  then  kill  me, 

But  do  not  banish  me. 

Ant.  I  must  not  hear  you. 

I  have  a  fool  within  me  takes  your  part; 

But  honor  stops  my  ears. 

Cleo.  For  pity  hear  me! 

Would    you    cast    off   a    slave    who    followed 
you? 

Who  crouched  beneath  your  spurn? — He  has 
no  pity ! 

See,    if   he  gives  one   tear  to   my  departure; 

One   look,   one   kind   farewell:     O   iron   heart! 

Let  all   the   gods   look   down,   and  judge   be- 
twixt us, 

If  he  did  ever  love! 

Ant.  No  more;  Alexas! 

Dola.     A  perjured  villain! 
Ant.    [to   CLEO.].  Your   Alexas;   yours. 

Cleo.     Oh,  'twas   his  plot;  his   ruinous  de- 
sign, 

To  engage  you  in  my  love  by  jealousy. 

Hear    him;    confront    him   with   me;    let   him 

speak. 
Ant.     I  have;  I  have. 

Cleo.  And   if   he   clear  me   not 

Ant.     Your  creature!  one,  who  hangs  upon 
your  smiles! 

Watches  your  eye,   to  say  or  to  unsay, 

Whate'er  you  please!    I  am  not  to  be  moved. 
Cleo.     Then  must  we  part?     Farewell,  my 
cruel  lord! 

The  appearance  is  against  me;  and  I  go, 

Unjustified,  for  ever  from  your  sight. 

How  I  have  loved,  you  know;  how  yet  I  love, 

My  only  comfort  is,  I  know  myself: 

I   love  you  more,   even  now  you  are   unkind, 

Than  when  you  loved  me  most;   so   well,   so 
truly 

I'll  never  strive  against  it;   but  die  pleased, 

To  think  you  once  were  mine. 

Ant.     Good    heaven,    they    weep    at    part- 
ing! 


Must  I  weep  too?  that  calls  'em  innocent. 
I  must  not  weep;   and  yet   I  must,   to   think 

That  I  must  not  forgive. 

Live,    but    live   wretched;    'tis    but    just    you 

should, 
Who    made    me    so;    live    from    each    other's 

sight; 
Let    me    not    hear    you    meet.      Set    all    the 

earth, 
And    all    the    seas,    betwixt    your    sundered 

loves ; 
View    nothing     common    but     the    sun    and 

skies. 

Now,  all  take   several  ways; 
And    each   your   own    sad   fate,   with   mine, 

deplore ; 
That  you  were  false,  and  I   could  trust  no 

more.  [Exeunt  severally. 

ACT  V 

SCENE  I 
Enter  CLEOPATRA,   CHARMION,   and   IRAS. 

Char.     Be  juster,  heaven;  such  virtue  pun- 
ished thus, 

Will    make    us    think    that    chance    rules    all 
above, 

And  shuffles,  with  a  random  hand,  the  lots, 

Which  man  is  forced  to  draw. 

Cleo.     I    could    tear    out    these    eyes,    that 
gained  his  heart, 

And  had  not  power  to  keep  it.    O  the  curse 

Of  doting  on,  even  when  I  find  it  dotage! 

Bear   witness,   gods,    you   heard   him    bid   me 
go; 

You,    whom    he    mocked     with    imprecating 
vows 

Of  promised  faith! I'll  die;  I  will  not  bear 

it. 

You   may   hold   me 

[She  pulls  out  her  dagger,  and  they  hold 
her. 

But  I  can  keep  my  breath;  I  can  die  inward, 

And  choke  this  love. 

Enter  ALEXAS. 

Iras.  Help,  O   Alexas,   help! 

The  queen  grows  desperate;  her  soul   strug- 
gles in  her 

With  all  the  agonies  of  love  and  rage, 
And   strives   to   force   its  passage. 

Cleo.  Let    me    go. 

Art   thou  there,   traitor!— O, 
O  for  a  little  breath,  to  vent  my  rage, 
Give,   give   me   way,   and   let   me   loose   upon 
him. 

Alex.     Yes,   I   deserve  it,   for  my  ill-timed 

truth. 

Was  it  for  me  to  prop 
The   ruins   of   a  falling   majesty? 
To  place  myself  beneath  the  mighty  flaw, 
Thus  to  be  crushed,  and  pounded  into  atoms, 


ACT  V,  Sc.  I. 


ALL  FOR  LOVE 


By    its    o'erwhelming   weight?     'Tis    too   pre- 
suming 

For  subjects  to  preserve  that  wilful  power, 
Which  courts  its  own  destruction. 

Clco.  I  would  reason 

More  calmly  with  you.  Did  not  you  o'crrule, 
And  force  my  plain,  direct,  and  open  love, 
Into  these  crooked  paths  of  jealousy? 
Now,  what's  the  event?  Octavia  is  removed; 
But  Cleopatra's  banished.  Thou,  thou  vil- 
lain, 

Hast  pushed  my  boat  to  open  sea;  to  prove, 
At  my  sad  cost,  if  thou  canst  steer  it  back. 
It  cannot  be;  I'm  lost  too  far;  I'm  ruined: 
Hence,  thou  '  impostor,  traitor,  monster, 

devil  !— 
I    can    no   more:    thou,   and    my    griefs,    have 

sunk 
Me  down  so  low,  that  I  want  voice  to  curse 

thee. 
Alex.     Suppose    some   shipwrecked    seaman 

near  the  shore, 
Dropping    and    faint,    with    climbing    up    the 

cliff, 

If,  from  above,  some  charitable  hand 
Pull   him   to   safety,   hazarding   himself, 
To   draw   the   other's   weight;   would   he   look 

back, 
And   curse   him   for   his  pains?     The   case   is 

yours; 
But    one    step    more,    and    you    have    gained 

the  height. 

Cleo.     Sunk,  never  more  to  rise. 
Ale  jr.      Octavia's       gone,      and      Dolabella 

banished. 

Believe  me,   madam,   Antony  is  yours. 
His  heart  was  never  lost,  but  started  off 
To   jealousy,   love's   last   retreat   and   covert; 
Where  it  lies   hid  in   shades,  watchful  in   si- 
lence, 
And    listening    for    the    sound    that    calls    it 

back. 

Some  other,   any  man   ('tis   so  advanced), 
May    perfect    this   unfinished    work,    which    I 
(Unhappy  only  to  myself)  have  left 
So  easy  to  his  hand. 

Cleo.  Look   well    thou   do't;    else 

Alex.     Else,  what  your  silence  threatens. — 

Antony 

Is  mounted  up  the  Pharos;  from  whose  tur- 
ret. 

He  stands  surveying  our  Egyptian  galleys, 
Engaged  with  Caesar's  fleet.  Now  death  or 

conquest ! 

If  the  first  happen,  fate  acquits  my  promise; 
If  we  o'ercome,  the  conqueror  is  yours. 

[A   distant  shout  within. 

Char.     Have     comfort,     madam:     did     you 

mark  that  shout?       [Second  shout  nearer. 

Iras.     Hark!   they   redouble   it. 

Alex.  'Tis  from  the  port. 

The  loudness  shows  it  near:  good  news,  kind 

heavens ! 
Cleo.     Osiris   make  it  so! 


Enter  SERAPION. 

Scrap.  Where,    where's   the   queen  ? 

Alex.     How    frightfully     the    holy    coward 
stares 

As  if  not  yet  recovered  of   the  assault. 

When    all    his    gods,    and,    what's    more    dear 
to   him, 

His  offerings,  were  at  stake. 

Scrap.  O   horror,   horror! 

Egypt   has  been;   our  latest   hour   has   come: 

The  queen  of  nations,  from  her  ancient  seat, 

Is   sunk  for  ever  in   the   dark  abyss; 

Time  has  unrolled  her  glories  to  the  last, 

And  now  closed  up  the  volume. 

Cleo.  Be  more  plain: 

Say,   whence   thou   corn's t;   though  fate   is   in 
thy   face, 

Which   from    thy   haggard   eyes   looks    wildly 
out, 

And  threatens   ere  thou   speakest. 

Serap.  I  came  from  Pharos; 

From  viewing  (spare  me,  and  imagine  it) 

Our  land's  last  hope,  your  navy 

Cleo.  Vanquished? 

Serap.  No: 

They   fought   not. 

Cleo.  Then  they  fled. 

Serap.  Nor  that.     I   saw, 

With   Antony,   your  well-appointed   fleet 

Row  out;   and   thrice   he  waved   his   hand   on 
high, 

And  thrice  with   cheerful   cries   they   shouted 
back: 

'Twas    then    false    Fortune,    like    a    fawning 
strumpet, 

About   to  leave  the  bankrupt  prodigal, 

With  a  dissembled  smile  would  kiss  at  part- 
ing, 

And  flatter  to  the  last;  the  well-timed  oars, 

Now  dipt  from  every  bank,  now  smoothly  run 

To  meet  the  foe;  and  soon  indeed   they  met, 

But   not  as  foes.     In  few,  we  saw  their  caps 

On  either  side  thrown  up;  the  Egyptian  gal- 
leys, 

Received    like    friends,    passed    through,    and 
fell  behind 

The    Roman    rear;    and    now,    they    all    come 
forward, 

And  ride  within  the  port. 

Cleo.  Enough,    Serapion: 

I've   heard   my    doom. — This   needed   not,   you 
gods: 

When    I    lost   Antony,   your   work   was   done; 

'Tis     but     superfluous     malice. — Where's     my 
lord? 

How  bears  he  this  last  blow? 

Serap.     His    fury    cannot    be    expressed    by 
words: 

Thrice  he  attempted  headlong  to  have  fallen 

Full  on   his  foes,  and  aimed  at   Caesar's   gal- 
ley: 

Withheld,   he    raves   on   you;   cries,    he's   be- 
trayed. 


70 


ALL  FOR  LOVE 


ACT  V,  Sc.  I. 


Should   he   now   find   you 

Alex.  Shun  him;  seek  your  safety, 

Till  you  can  clear  your  innocence. 

Cleo.  I'll   stay. 

Alex.     You   must   not;    haste   you    to   your 

monument, 
While  I  make  speed  to  Caesar. 

Cleo.  Caesar !      No, 

I  have  no  business  with  him. 

Alex.  I  can  work  him 

To    spare    your    life,    and    let    this    madman 

perish. 
Cleo.     Base   fawning  wretch!   wouldst  thou 

betray  him  too? 
Hence    from    my    sight!      I    will    not    hear    a 

traitor; 

"Twas  thy  design  brought  all  this  ruin  on  us. 
Serapion,   thou   art   honest;   counsel  me: 
But    haste,    each    moment's    precious. 

Serap.     Retire;  you  must  not  yet  see  An- 
tony. 

He    who    began    this   mischief, 
'Tis  just  he  tempt  the  danger;  let  him  clear 

you: 

And,  since  he  offered  you  his  servile  tongue, 
To   gain    a  poor   precarious   life   from   Caesar, 
Let  him  expose  that  fawning  eloquence, 
And   speak   to   Antony. 

Alex.  O   heavens!   I   dare   not; 

I  meet  my  certain  death. 

Cleo.  Slave,  thou  deserv'st  it. — 

Not  that  I  fear  my  lord,  will  I  avoid  him; 
I  know  him  noble:  when  he  banished  me, 
And  thought  me  false,  he  scorned  to  take 

my   life; 

But  I'll  be  justified,  and  then  die  with  him. 
Alex.  O  pity  me,  and  let  me  follow  you. 
Cleo.  To  death,  if  thou  stir  hence.  Speak, 

if   thou   canst, 
Now  for  thy  life,  which  basely  thou  wouldst 

save; 

While    mine    I    prize    at — this!     Come,    good 
Serapion. 
[Exeunt  CLEOPATRA,   SERAPION,   CHARM  ION, 

IRAS. 
Alex.     O  that  I  less  could  fear  to  lose  this 

being, 

Which,  like  a  snowball  in   my   coward  hand, 
The    more    'tis     grasped,     the    faster    melts 

away. 

Poor  reason!  what  a  wretched  aid  art  thou! 
For  still,  in  spite  of  thee, 

These  two  long  lovers,  soul  and  body,  dread 
Their    final    separation.      Let   me    think: 
What  can  I  say,  to  save  myself  from  death? 
No  matter  what  becomes  of  Cleopatra. 
Ant.    [within}.    Which   way?   where? 
Vent,    [within].       This  leads   to   the   monu- 
ment. 

Alex.     Ah  me!    I  hear  him;  yet  I'm  unpre- 
pared: 

My  gift  of  lying's  gone; 

And    this    court-devil,    which    I    so    oft    have 
raised, 


Forsakes   me   at   my   need.     I  dare  not   stay; 
Yet  cannot  far  go  hence.  [Exit. 

Enter  ANTONY  and  VENTIDIUS. 

Ant.     O   happy    Caesar!    thou   hast   men    to 
lead: 

Think  not  'tis  thou  hast  conquered  Antony; 

But    Rome    has    conquered    Egypt.      I'm    be- 
trayed. 
Vent.     Curse    on    this    treacherous    train ! 

Their    soil   and   heaven    infect    them   all   with 
baseness: 

And   their  young   souls   come   tainted   to   the 
world 

With  the  first  breath    they  draw. 

Ant.     The     original     villain     sure     no     god 
created; 

He  was  a   bastard  of  the  sun,   by  Nile, 

Aped   into    man;    with   all   his    mother's    mud 

Crusted  about  his  soul. 

Vent.  The  nation   is 

One   universal   traitor;   and   their  queen 

The   very  spirit  and  extract  of   them  all. 
Ant.     Is  there  yet  left 

A  possibility  of  aid  from  valor? 

Is    there    one    god    unsworn    to    my    destruc- 
tion? 

The  least  unmortgaged  hope?  for,  if  there  be, 

Methinks    I    cannot   fall   beneath   the   fate 

Of  such  a  boy  as  Caesar. 

The   world's   one  half  is   yet  in  Antony; 

And  from  each  limb  of  it  that's  hewed  away, 

The   soul  comes  back   to  me. 

Vent.  There   yet    remain 

Three  legions  in  the  town.    The  last  assault 

Lopt  off  the  rest;  if  death  be  your  design, — 

As   I   must  wish  it  now — these   are   sufficient 

To  make  a  heap  about  us  of  dead  foes, 

An  honest  pile  for  burial. 

Ant.  They're     enough. 

We'll  not  divide  our  stars;  but,  side  by  side, 

Fight  emulous,  and  with  malicious  eyes 

Survey    each    other's    acts.      So    every    death 

Thou  giv'st,   I'll  take  on  me,  as  a  just  debt, 

And  pay  thee  back  a  soul. 

Vent.     Now  you  shall  see  I  love  you.    Not 
a  word 

Of   chiding  more.     By  my   few   hours  of  life, 

I  am  so  pleased  with  this  brave  Roman  fate, 

That   I   would   not   be  Caesar,   to  outlive  you. 

When   we  put  off  this   flesh,   and  mount   to- 
gether, 

I  shall  be  shown  to  all  the  ethereal  crowd, — 

"  Lo,  this  is  he  who  died  with  Antony !  " 
Ant.     Who     knows,     but     we     may     pierce 
through   all   their    troops, 

And   reach   my  veterans  yet?  'tis   worth   the 
'tempting, 

To  o'erleap   this   gulf  of  fate, 

And  leave  our  wandering  destinies  behind. 

Enter  ALEXAS,  trembling. 
Vent.     See,  see,  that  villain! 


71 


ACT  V,  Sc.  I. 


ALL  FOR  LOVE 


See  Cleopatra  stamped  upon  that  face, 

With  all   her   cunning,   all   her  arts   of  false- 
hood! 

How  she  looks  out  through  those  dissembling 
eyes! 

How    he   has   set  his   countenance  for   deceit, 

And  promises  a  lie,  before  he  speaks! 

Let  me  despatch  him  first.  [Drawing. 

Alex.  O  spare  me,   spare   me! 

Ant.     Hold;   he's  not  worth  your  killing. — 
On  thy  life 

(Which  thou  may'st  keep,  because  I  scorn  to 
take    it), 

No  syllable   to  justify   thy   queen; 

Save    thy   base    tongue   its    office. 

Alc.tr.  Sir,    she   is   gone, 

Where  she  shall  never  be  molested  more 

By   love,  or  you. 

Ant.  Fled    to   her   Dolabella! 

Die,  traitor!    I  revoke  my  promise!  die! 

[Going   to   kill   him. 
Alex.     O  hold!   she  is  not  fled. 
Ant.  She   is:    my   eyes 

Are  open  to  her  falsehood;  my  whole  life 

Has  been  a  golden  dream  of  love  and  friend- 
ship; 

But,     now     I     wake,     I'm     like    a     merchant, 
roused 

From  soft  repose,   to  see  his   vessel   sinking, 

And    all    his    wealth    cast    over.      Ingrateful 
woman ! 

Who   followed   me,   but  as  the  swallow  sum- 
mer, 

Hatching     her     young     ones     in     my     kindly 
beams. 

Singing  her  flatteries  to  my   morning  wake: 

But,  now  my  winter  comes,  she  spreads  her 
wings, 

And  seeks  the  spring  of  Cesar. 

Alex.  Think    not   so: 

Her  fortunes  have,  in  all  things,  mixed  with 
yours. 

Had   she  betrayed  her  naval   force  to   Rome, 

How  easily   might   she  have   gone  to   Caesar, 

Secure  by  such  a  bribe! 

Vent.  She  sent  it  first, 

To  be  more  welcome  after. 

Ant.  Tis    too   plain; 

Else  would  she  have  appeared,  to  clear  her- 
self. 

Alex.     Too  fatally   she   has:   she   could   not 
bear 

To  be  accused  by  you;  but  shut  herself 

Within    her    monument;    looked    down    and 
sighed; 

While,   from    her   unchanged   face,   the   silent 
tears 

Dropt,  as  they  had  not  leave,  but  stole  their 
parting. 

Some    undistinguished   words   she    inly    mur- 
mured ; 

At  last,  she  raised  her  eyes;  and,  with  such 
looks 

As  dying  Lucrece  cast 


Ant.  My  heart  forebodes 

Vent.     All  for  the  best;   go  on. 
Alex.  She   snatched   her  poniard, 

And,  ere  we  could  prevent  the  fatal  blow, 
Plunged  it  within  her  breast;  then  turned  to 

me: 
"  Go,    bear    my    lord,"    said    she,    "  my    last 

farewell ; 

And   ask   him,    if   he   yet   suspect   my   faith." 
More   she  was  saying,  but  death   rushed  be- 
twixt. 
She    half    pronounced    your    name    with    her 

last  breath, 
And  buried  half  within   her. 

Vent.  Heaven    be    praised! 

Ant.     Then    art    thou    innocent,    my    poor 

dear  love, 

And  art  thou  dead? 
O   those    two   words!   their   sound   should   be 

divided: 
Hadst    thou   been   false,    and   died;   or    hadst 

thou  lived, 
And    hadst    been    true. — But    innocence    and 

death! 
This    shows    not    well    above.      Then    what 

am  I, 

The   murderer  of  this  truth,   this  innocence! 
Thoughts    cannot   form    themselves   in   words 

so  horrid 
As  can  express  my  guilt! 

Vent.     Is't  come   to   this?     The  gods   have 

been  too  gracious; 
And  thus  you  thank  'em  for't! 

Ant.    [to  ALEX.].    Why   stayest   thou   here? 
Is  it  for  thee  to  spy  upon  my  soul, 
And    see    its    inward    mourning?      Get    thee 

hence; 

Thou   art    not   worthy    to   behold,    what   now 
Becomes   a    Roman    emperor    to    perform. 

Alex,   [aside].     He  loves  her  still: 
His  grief  betrays  it.     Good!  the  joy  to  find 
She's    yet    alive,     completes     the     reconcile- 
ment. 
I've    saved    myself,    and    her.     But,    oh!    the 

Romans ! 

Fate  comes   too  fast  upon  my  wit, 
Hunts   me   too   hard,    and  meets    me   at   each 
double.  [Exit. 

Vent.     Would  she  had  died  a  little  sooner, 

though, 
Before      Octavia     went!     you     might      have 

treated: 

Now  'twill  look   tame,  and  would  not  be  re- 
ceived. 

Come,  rouse  yourself,  and  let's  die  warm  to- 
gether. 
Ant.     I    will    not    fight:    there's    no    more 

work  for  war. 

The  business  of  my  angry  hours  is  done. 
Vent.     Caesar  is   at  your  gates. 
Ant.  Why,   let   him    enter; 

He's   welcome  now. 

Vent.     What  lethargy  has  crept  into  your 
soul? 


72 


ALL  FOR  LOVE 


ACT  V,  Sc.  I. 


Ant.     'Tis  but  a  scorn  of  life,  and  just  de- 
sire 
To  free  myself  from  bondage. 

Vent.  Do   it   bravely. 

Ant.     I  will;  but  not  by  fighting.     O  Ven- 

tidius! 
What  should  I  fight  for  now?     My  queen  is 

dead. 

I  was  but  great  for  her;  my  power,  my  em- 
pire, 

Were  but  my  merchandise  to  buy  her  love; 
And  conquered  kings,  my  factors.  Now  she's 

dead, 

Let   Caesar   take    the  world, — 
An  empty  circle,  since  the  jewel's  gone 
Which  mace  it  worth  my  strife:   my  being's 

nauseous; 

For  all  the  bribes  of  life  are  gone  away. 
Vent.     Would  you  be  taken? 
Ant.  Yes,    I   would   be   taken; 

But,     as    a    Roman    ought, — dead,    my     Ven- 

tidius: 

For  I'll  convey  my  soul  from  Cesar's  reach, 
And  lay  down  life  myself.  'Tis  time  the 

world 

Should  have  a  lord,  and  know  whom  to  obey. 
We  two  have  kept  its  homage  in  suspense, 
And  bent  the  globe,  on  whose  each  side  we 

trod, 

Till  it  was  dented  inwards.    Let  him  walk 
Alone  upon't:   I'm  weary  of  my  part. 
My   torch  is  out;   and   the   world   stands  be- 
fore   me, 

Like  a  black  desert  at  the  approach  of  night: 
I'll  lay  me  down,  and  stray  no  farther  on. 

Vent.     I   could  be  grieved, 
But   that    I'll    not   outlive   you:    choose   your 

death; 

For,  I  have  seen  him  in  such  various  shapes, 
I   care   not  which   I   take;   I'm   only   troubled, 
The  life  I  bear  is  worn   to  such  a  rag, 
'Tis  scarce  worth  giving.     I   could  wish,   in- 
deed, 

We    threw   it   from   us   with   a   better   grace; 
That,  like  two  lions  taken  in  the  toils, 
We  might  at  last  thrust  out  our  paws,  and 

wound 
The  hunters  that  inclose  us. 

Ant.  I    have   thought   on't. 

Ventidius,  you  must  live. 

Vent,  I    must    not,    sir. 

Ant.     Wilt    thou    not    live,    to    speak    some 

good  of  me? 
To    stand   by    my   fair   fame,    and   guard    the 

approaches 
From  the  ill  tongues  of  men? 

Vent.  Who    shall    guard   mine, 

For  living  after  you? 

Ant.  Say,    I   command   it. 

Vent.     If    we    die    well,    our    deaths    will 

speak    themselves 
And   need   no   living   witness. 

Ant.  Thou  hast  loved  me, 

And  fain  I  would  reward  thee.     I  must  die; 


Kill  me,  and  take  the  merit  of  my  death, 
To  make  thee  friends  with  Caesar. 

Vent.  Thank    your    kindness. 

You  said  I  loved  you;  and  in  recompense, 
You  bid  me  turn  a  traitor.  Did  I  think 
You  would  have  used  me  thus?— that  I 

should  die 
With  a  hard  thought  of  you? 

Ant.  Forgive   me,    Roman. 

Since   I   have  heard  of  Cleopatra's   death, 
My    reason    bears    no   rule   upon   my    tongue, 
But  lets   my    thoughts   break   all   at   random 

out. 
I've   thought  better;   do   not   deny   me  twice. 

Vent.     By    Heaven   I   will   not. 
Let  it  not  be  to  outlive  you. 

Ant.  Kill  me  first, 

And    then    die    thou;    for    'tis    but   just    thou 

serve 
Thy   friend,   before   thyself. 

Vent.  Give   me   your   hand. 

We    soon   shall   meet   again.     Now,    farewell, 

emperor ! —  [Embrace. 

Methinks  that  word's  too  cold  to  be  my  last: 
Since  death  sweeps  all  distinctions,  farewell, 

friend! 

That's  all 

I  will  not  make  a  business  of  a  trifle; 

And  yet  I  cannot  look  on  you,  and  kill  you; 

Pray  turn  your  face. 

Ant.  I  do:  strike  home,  be   sure. 

Vent.     Home  as  my  sword  will  reach. 

[Kills   himself. 

Ant.  O,  thou  mistak'st; 

That  wound  was  none  of  thine;   give  it  me 

back: 
Thou   robb'st  me  of  my  death. 

Vent.  I   do   indeed; 

But   think  'tis  the  first   time  I   e'er  deceived 

you, 
If    that    may    plead    my    pardon.      And    you, 

gods, 

Forgive  me,   if  you  will;   for   I  die   perjured, 

Rather   than   kill   my   friend.  [Dies. 

Ant.     Farewell!     Ever  my  leader,  even   in 

death! 

My  queen  and  thou  have  got  the  start  of  me, 
And  I'm  the  lag  of  honor. — Gone  so  soon? 
Is  Death  no  more?  he  used  him  carelessly, 
With  a  familiar  kindness;  ere  he  knocked, 
Ran  to  the  door,  and  took  him  in  his  arms, 
As  who  should  say,  "  You're  welcome  at  all 

hours, 
A  friend  need  give  no  warning."    Books  had 

spoiled  him; 

For   all   the   learned   are   cowards   by  profes- 
sion. 

'Tis  not  worth 
My   farther  thought;   for   death,   for  aught   I 

know, 

Is  but  to  think  no  more.    Here's  to  be  satis- 
fied. [Falls    on    his   sword. 
I've     missed     my     heart.      O     unperforming 

hand! 


73 


ACT  V,  Sc.  I. 


ALL  FOR  LOVE 


Thou    never    couldst   have   erred    in   a   worse 

time. 

My  fortune  jades  me  to  the  last;  and  death, 
Like   a    great    man,    takes    state,    and    makes 

me   wait 

For    my    admittance. [Trampling   within. 

Some,    perhaps,    from    Caesar: 
If  he  should  find  me  living,  and   suspect 
That  I  played  booty  with  my  life!    I'll  mend 
My  work,  ere   they  can  reach  me. 

[Rises  upon  his  knees. 

Enter  CLEOPATRA,   CHARMION,   IRAS. 

I 

Cleo.     Where  is  my  lord?  where  is  he? 
Char.  There    he   lies, 

And  dead   Ventidius   by   him. 

Cleo.     My  fears  were  prophets;  I  am  come 
too  late. 

0  that  accursed  Alexas!  [Runs  to  him. 
Ant.                                    Art   thou  living? 

Or  am  I  dead  before  I  knew,  and  thou 
The  first  kind  ghost  that  meets  me? 

Cleo.  Help    me   seat   him. 

Send  quickly,  send  for  help! 

[They  place  him  in  a  chair. 

Ant.  I   am   answered. 

We  live  both.    Sit  thee  down,  my  Cleopatra: 
I'll  make  the  most   I  can  of  life,   to  stay 
A   moment  more   with  thee. 

Cleo.     How  is  it  with  you? 

Ant.  'Tis   as   with   a  man 

Removing  in  a  hurry;  all  packed  up, 
But  one  dear  jewel  that  his  haste  forgot; 
And  he,  for  that,  returns  upon  the  spur: 
So  I  come  back  for  thee. 

Cleo.     Too    long,    you    heavens,    you    have 

been    cruel   to   me: 
Now  show  your  mended  faith,   and   give  me 

back 
His   fleeting   life! 

Ant.  It  will  not  be,  my  love; 

1  keep  my  soul  by  force. 
Say   but,   thou  art  not  false. 

Cleo.  Tis    now    too    late 

To   say  I'm  true:  I'll  prove  it,  and  die  with 

you. 

Unknown    to    me,    Alexas   feigned   my   death; 
Which,  when  I  knew,  I  hasted  to  prevent 
This    fatal    consequence.     My    fleet    betrayed 
Both  you  and  me. 

Ant.  And   Dolabella 

Cleo.  Scarce 

Esteemed    before    he   loved;    but    hated    now. 

Ant.     Enough:   my   life's   not  long   enough 

for  more. 
Thou  say'st,   thou  wilt  come  after:  I  believe 

thee; 

For  I  can  now  believe  whate'er  thou  sayest, 
That  we  may  part  more  kindly. 

Cleo.  I    will   come: 

Doubt    not,    my    life,    I'll    come,    and    quickly 

too: 
Cesar  shall  triumph  o'er  no  part  of  thee. 


Ant.     But   grieve   not,   while   thou    stay'st, 
My  last  disastrous  times: 
Think    we    have    had    a    clear    and    glorious 

day 

And    heaven   did  kindly   to   delay    the   storm. 
Just    till   our   close   of   evening.     Ten    years' 

love, 

And  not  a  moment  lost,  but  all  improved 
To    the    utmost    joys, — what    ages    have    we 

lived! 

And  now  to  die  each  other's;  and,  so  dying. 
While  hand  in  hand  we  walk  in   groves   be- 
low, 
Whole    troops    of    lovers'    ghosts    shall    flock 

about  us, 
And  all   the   train   be  ours. 

Cleo.     Your    words    are    like    the    notes    of 

dying    swans, 

Too  sweet  to  last.    Were  there  so  many  hours 

For  your  unkindness,  and  not  one  for  love? 

Ant.     No,    not   a   minute. — This   one   kiss — 

more  worth 
Than  all  I  leave  to  Caesar.  [Dies. 

Cleo.     O    tell    me    so    again, 
And  take  ten  thousand  kisses  for  that  word. 
My    lord,   my   lord !    speak,    if   you   yet   have 

being; 

Sign  to  me,  if  you  cannot  speak;  or  cast 
One  look!    Do  anything  that  shows  you  live. 

Iras.     He's  gone  too  far  to  hear  you; 
And  this  you   see,   a  lump  of  senseless  clay, 
The  leavings  of  a   soul. 

Char.  Remember,  madam, 

He  charged  you  not  to  grieve. 

Cleo.  And  I'll  obey  him. 

I  have  not  loved  a  Roman,  not  to  know 
What  should  become  his  wife;   his  wife,  my 

Charmion ! 

For  'tis  to  that  high  title  I  aspire; 
And  now  I'll  not  die  less.     Let  dull  Octavia 
Survive,  to  mourn  him  dead;  my  nobler  fate 
Shall  knit  our  spousals  with  a  tie,  too  strong 
For   Roman   laws    to   break. 

Iras.  Will  you  then  die? 

Cleo.     Why  shouldst  thou  make  that  ques- 
tion? 

Iras.     Caesar   is   merciful. 
Cleo.  Let  him  be   so 

To  those  that  want  his  mercy;  my  poor  lord 
Made   no   such   covenant   with   him,    to   spare 

me 
When    he    was    dead.     Yield    me    to    Caesar's 

pride  ? 
What!    to    be    led    in    triumph    through    the 

streets, 

A   spectacle  to  base  plebeian  eyes; 
While   some   dejected   friend   of   Antony's, 
Close  in  a  corner,  shakes  his  head,  and  mut- 
ters 

A  secret  curse  on  her  who  ruined  him! 
I'll   none   of   that. 

Char.  Whatever   you   resolve, 

I'll  follow,  even  to  death. 

Iras.  I  only  feared 


74 


ALL  FOR  LOVE 


ACT  V,  So.  I. 


For  you;  but  more  should  fear  to  live  with- 
out you. 

Cleo.     Why,     now,     'tis    as    it     should    be. 
Quick,    my    friends, 

Dispatch;    ere    this,    the    town's    in    Caesar's 
hands: 

My  lord  looks  down  concerned,  and  fears  my 
stay, 

Lest  I  should  be  surprised; 

Keep   him  not  waiting  for  his  love  too  long. 

You,  Charmion,  bring  my  crown  and  richest 
jewels; 

With  them,  the  wreath  of  victory  I  made 

(Vain  augury!)   for  him,  who  now  lies  dead: 

You,  Iras,  bring  the  cure  of  all  our  ills. 
Iras.     The   aspics,    madam? 
Cleo.  Must  I  bid  you  twice? 

[Exeunt  CHARMION  and  IRAS. 

'Tis  sweet  to  die,  when  they  would  force  life 
on  me, 

To  rush  into  the  dark  abode  of  death, 

And  seize  him  first;  if  he  be  like  my  love, 

He  is  not  frightful,  sure. 

We're  now  alone,  in  secrecy  and  silence; 

And  is  not  this  like  lovers?     I   may  kiss 

These   pale,    cold   lips;    Octavia   does   not   see 
me: 

And,  oh !  'tis  better  far  to  have  him  thus, 

Than  see  him  in  her  arms. — O,  welcome,  wel- 
come! 

Enter   CHARMION    and   IRAS. 

Char.     What  must  be  done? 
Cleo.  Short    ceremony,    friends; 

But     yet     it    must    be    decent.       First,     this 

laurel 
Shall    crown    my    hero's    head:    he    fell    not 

basely, 

Nor  left  his  shield  behind  him. — Only  thou 
Couldst  triumph  o'er  thyself;  and  thou  alone 
Wert  worthy  so  to  triumph. 

Char.  To  what  end 

These  ensigns  of  your  pomp  and  royalty? 
Cleo.     Dull    that    thou    art!    why,    'tis    to 

meet  my   love; 

As   when   I   saw   him   first,  on   Cydnos'  bank, 
All  sparkling,  like  a  goddess:  so  adorned, 
I'll  find  him  once  again;  my  second  spousals 
Shall  match  my  first  in  glory.    Haste,  haste, 

both, 
And   dress    the    bride   of   Antony. 

Char.  Tis    done. 

(/(•').     Now   seat   me  by   my   lord.     I   claim 

this  place; 

For  I  must  conquer  Caesar  too,  like  him, 
And  win  my  share  of  the  world. — Hail,  you 

dear  relics 

Of  my  immortal  love! 

O  let  no  impious  hand  remove  you  hence: 
But  rest  for  ever  here!  Let  Egypt  give 
His  death  that  peace,  which  it  denied  his 

life.— 
Reach   me   the   casket. 


Iras.  Underneath   the  fruit 

The  aspic  lies. 

Cleo.    [putting  aside   the   leaves].     Welcome, 

thou   kind  deceiver! 

Thou  best  of  thieves;  who,  with  an  easy  key, 
Dost  open  life,  and,  unperceived  by  us, 
Even  steal  us  from  ourselves;  discharging  so 
Death's  dreadful  office,  better  than  himself; 
Touching  our  limbs  so  gently  into  slumber, 
That  Death  stands  by,  deceived  by  his  own 

image, 
And  thinks  himself  but  Sleep. 

Serap.   [within].     The  queen,  where  is  she? 

The   town    is    yielded,    Caesar's   at   the   gates. 

Cleo.     He    comes    too    late    to    invade    the 

rights  of  death 

Haste,  bare  my  arm,  and  rouse  the  serpent's 
fury. 

[Holds   out   her  arm  and   draws  it   back. 
Coward  flesh, 
Wouldst  thou  conspire  with  Caesar  to  betray 

me, 
As  thou  wert  none  of  mine?     I'll  force  thee 

to   it, 

And  not  be  sent  by  him, 
But   bring,   myself,   my   soul    to   Antony. 

[Turns    aside,    and    then    shows    her    arm 

bloody. 
Take  hence;  the  work  is  done. 

Serap.    [within].  Break    ope    the    door, 

And   guard   the   traitor   well. 

Char.  The   next  is  ours. 

Iras.     Now,   Charmion,   to   be   worthy 
Of  our  great  queen  and  mistress. 

[They  apply   the  aspics. 
Cleo.     Already,    death,    I    feel    thee    in    my 

veins: 

I  go  with  such  a  will  to  find  my  lord, 
That   we   shall   quickly  meet. 
A    heavy    numbness    creeps    through    every 

limb, 

And   now   'tis   at   my   head;    my    eyelids    fall, 
And  my  dear  love  is  vanished  in  a  mist. 
Where  shall  I  find  him,  where?     O  turn  me 

to   him, 

And  lay  me  on  his  breast! — Caesar,  thy  worst; 

Now    part    us,    if    thou    canst.  [Dies. 

[IRAS   sinks    down    at    her   feet,    and    dies; 

CHARMION  stands  behind  her  chair,  as 

dressing  her  head. 

Enter    SERAPION,    two    Priests,    ALEXAS    bound, 
Egyptians. 

Priest.  Behold,     Serapion, 

What   havoc   death   has   made! 

Serap.  'Twas  what  I  feared. — 

Charmion,  is   this  well  done? 

Char.     Yes,     'tis     well     done,     and     like     a 

queen,   the   last 
Of  her  great  race:  I  follow  her. 

[Sinks    down:    dies. 

Alex.  'Tis    true, 

She    has    done    well:    much    better    thus    to 
die, 


75 


EPILOGUE 


Than   live    to   make   a   holiday   in   Rome. 
Strap.     See,    see,    how    the    lovers    sit    in 

state   together, 

As  they  were  giving  laws  to  half  mankind! 
The  impression  of  a  smile,  left  in  her  face, 
Shows  she  died  pleased  with  him  for  whom 

she    lived, 

And  went  to  charm  him  in  another  world. 
Caesar's    just     entering:     grief    has    now     no 

leisure. 

Secure  that  villain,  as  our  pledge  of  safety, 
To  grace  the  imperial  triumph.  Sleep,  blest 

pair, 

Secure  from  human  chance,  long  ages  out, 
While  all  the  storms  of  fate  fly  o'er  your 

tomb; 

And  fame   to   late  posterity  shall   tell, 
No  lovers  lived  so   great,   or  died   so  well. 

[Exeunt. 

EPILOGUE 

Poets,  like  disputants,  when  reasons  fail, 
Have  one  sure  refuge  left — and  that's  to  rail. 
Fop,    coxcomb,    fool,    are    thundered    through 

the  pit; 

And  this  is  all  their  equipage  of  wit. 
We    wonder    how    the    devil    this    difference 

grows, 
Betwixt    our    fools    in    verse,    and    yours    in 

prose: 
For,   'faith,   the   quarrel    rightly    understood, 


'Tis  civil  war  with  their  own  flesh  and  blood. 
The  threadbare  author  hates  the  gaudy  coat; 
And  swears  at  the  gilt  coach,  but  swears 

afoot: 

For   'tis   observed   of   every    scribbling    man, 
He   grows  a  fop  as   fast  as   e'er  he  can; 
Prunes    up,    and    asks   his    oracle,    the    glass, 
If  pink  or  purple  best  become   his   face. 
For    our   poor    wretch,    he    neither    rails    nor 

prays; 

Nor  likes  your  wit  just  as  you  like  his  plays; 
He  has  not  yet  so  much  of  Mr.  Bayes. 
He  does  his  best;  and  if  he  cannot  please, 
Would   quietly   sue   out    his   writ    of   ease. 
Yet,  if  he  might  his  own  grand  jury  call, 
By  the  fair  sex  he  begs  to  stand  or  fall. 
Let  Cesar's  power  the  men's  ambition  move, 
But   grace   you   him   who  lost   the  world   for 

love! 

Yet   if  some  antiquated  lady  say, 
The  last   age  is   not  copied  in   his  play; 
Heaven  help  the  man  who  for  that  face  must 

drudge, 

Which  only  has  the  wrinkles  of  a  judge. 
Let  not   the   young  and   beauteous   join   with 

those; 
For   should  you   raise   such    numerous   hosts 

of  foes, 
Young  wits  and   sparks   he    to   his   aid  must 

call; 
'Tis    more    than    one    man's    work    to    please 

you  all. 


THOMAS   OTWAY 


VENICE   PRESERVED 


VERY  striking  is  the  contrast  between  the  first  Restoration  tragedian  and 
the  second,  between  Dryden  and  Otway :  the  one  boasting  no  great  work  in 
his  youth  and  only  "  faintly  distinguished  in  his  thirtieth  year " ;  the  other, 
among  the  unhappy  youths  of  literature  whose  knell  was  knolled  before 
they  had  reached  the  middle  of  the  way.  The  energy,  versatility,  and  breadth 
of  view  of  the  poet  who  could  do  all  things  better  than  another  seem 
worlds  above  his  younger  contemporary's  narrow  intensity. 

The  life  of  Thomas  Otway  begins  in  gladness.  A  country  clergyman's 
son,  born  in  a  Sussex  parish  on  March  3,  1652,  he  is  educated  at  Winchester, 
which  long  hallows  his  memory,  and  then,  as  a  gentleman  commoner  in 
the  company  of  gilded  youth  at  Christ  Church,  Oxford.  His  comeliness  and 
charm  win  him  many  friends,  who  are  rather  a  curse  than  a  blessing,  and 
his  love  of  pleasure  leads  him,  always  feeble  of  purpose,  into  wild  ways  in 
London  when  his  college  days  are  over.  He  fails  as  an  actor,  stagestruck 
in  his  only  attempt,  and  whistles  other  chances  in  life  down  the  wind.  There 
is  soon  no  money  in  his  purse,  for  his  father  has  left  him  "  nought  but  his 
loyalty."  He  turns  playwright,  receiving  hearty  greetings  at  the  Duke's 
Theatre,  now  dominated  by  that  best  of  actor-managers  before  Garrick, 
Thomas  Betterton.  The  heroic  play  is  near  the  end  of  its  vogue,  and  Ot- 
way's  first  tragedy,  Alcibiades  (1675),  is  one  of  the  dullest  of  that  barren 
sort;  but  it  is  piloted  to  undeserved  success  by  the  talents  of  Betterton,  his 
wife,  and  Mrs.  Barry  in  the  chief  roles.  Other  dramas  follow  in  quick  suc- 
cession. In  the  next  year  (1676)  the  rimed  Don  Carlos  wins  as  high  favor 
from  Restoration  audiences  as  from  many  modern  critics.  In  1677  adapta- 
tions of  Racine  and  Moliere,  floated  by  Betterton  and  Barry,  gain  applause 
and  long  hold  the  stage.  An  appalling  lack  of  humor  does  not  restrain 
Otway  from  comedy,  and  the  rubbishy  Friendship  in  Fashion,  "  full  of  nau- 
seous doings,"  closes  his  first  period  in  1678  with  a  cheaply  won  triumph. 

Externally  all  seems  well  with  the  man,  but  the  demon  of  frenzied  love 
for  that  frail  beauty,  Mrs.  Barry,  who  smiles  upon  his  rival,  the  outrageous 
Earl  of  Rochester,  grants  the  distracted  wretch  no  mercy.  To  escape  his 
tyrant — so  he  addresses  the  actress  in  the  first  of  six  despairing  epistles — 
this  creature  of  impulse  snatches  at  a  commission  in  the  army  and  hurries 

77 


VENICE  PRESERVED 


off  on  an  ill-fated  campaign  in  the  Low  Countries.  At  the  end  of  1679  he 
comes  creeping  back,  a  sorry  figure  at  which  scoffers  point,  but  with  fresh 
resources  of  head  and  heart.  His  first  gift  to  the  stage  is  the  great  tragedy 
of  The  Orphan  (1680),  displaying  the  tragic  mistakes  of  a  night  and  afford- 
ing his  tyrant  large  scope  for  her  splendid  art  in  the  interpretation  of  the 
wronged  Monimia,  over  whose  character,  says  Mr.  Gosse,  "  probably  more 
tears  have  been  shed  than  over  that  of  any  other  stage  heroine."  His  next 
things  are  poor  enough :  the  unhappy  transference  of  Romeo  and  Juliet  to 
an"  ancient  Roman  background  in  The  History  and  Fall  of  Caius  Marius 
(1680),  and  the  comedy  of  highly  flavored  personal  reminiscence,  The  Sol- 
dier's Fortune  (1681).  Then  in  1682  Otway  reaches  his  high-water  mark 
in  the  play  which  is  our  chief  concern,  Venice  Preserved — to  some  "  the  best 
tragedy  out  of  Shakspere,"  to  others  "  the  greatest  tragic  drama  between 
Shakspere  and  Shelley." 

Otway's  ending  rivals  in  wretchedness  that  of  any  of  his  ill-starred  heroes. 
Seven  years'  service  for  his  Rachel  had  been  all  in  vain.  The  little  money 
gained  from  his  plays  had  been  quickly  squandered.  The  Atheist,  a  sequel 
to  his  military  comedy,  had  miserably  failed  in  1684.  Apparently,  it  was  not 
"  enough  for  one  age  to  have  neglected  Mr.  Cowley  and  to  have  starved  Mr. 
Butler."  However  conflicting  the  accounts  of  Otway's  death,  a  tradition  of 
days  of  debauch,  sponging-houses,  and  semi-starvation  places  him,  too, 
among  "  mighty  poets  in  their  misery  dead."  At  the  age  of  thirty-three,  a 
little  older  than  Marlowe  and  Shelley,  a  little  younger  than  Burns  and  Byron, 
he  was  laid  to  rest  on  April  16,  1685,  in  the  churchyard  of  St.  Clement  Danes. 

The  source  of  Otway's  Venice  Preserved  was  an  historical  novel,  Con- 
juration des  Espagnols  contre  la  Venise  en  1618  by  the  same  author  that 
had,  in  another  work,  furnished  the  dramatist  with  the  theme  of  Don  Carlos, 
the  Abbe  Saint-Real.  This  inner  history  of  a  famous  conspiracy,  which  was 
doubtless  known  to  Otway  in  an  English  translation  of  1675,  now  provided 
him  not  only  with  an  admirably  effective  situation,  but  with  such  eminently 
dramatic  characters  as  Jaffeir  and  Pierre.  Then,  too,  as  has  been  often  sug- 
gested, this  story  of  a  plot  might  well  be  fashioned  by  a  Tory  of  1682  into  a 
covert  allegory  of  the  great  "  Popish  Plot,"  fresh  in  all  Englishmen's  minds, 
and  might  thus,  through  obvious  implications,  awaken  as  ready  a  response 
from  partisans  as  Dryden's  timely  political  satires  of  similar  significance. 
That  Otway  availed  himself  of  this  opportunity  to  the  full  is  seen  not  only 
in  the  indirect  assault  of  prologue  and  epilogue  upon  the  Whig  leader,  An- 
thony Ashley  Cooper,  Earl  of  Shaftesbury,  but  in  the  beastly  caricature  of 
that  statesman,  the  thinly  disguised  Antonio  of  the  unfortunate  sub-plot,  who 
possesses  no  vestige  of  the  virtues  of  even  Dryden's  Achitophel.  These  dis- 
gusting scenes,  defended  by  Taine  alone  on  the  score  of  relief  to  the  serious 
action,  repel  both  by  their  grossness  and  their  lack-wit  and  were  wisely 
barred  from  later  stage-versions  of  the  play. 

Of  the  two  notable  figures  of   Venice  Preserved,  one  was  well  found, 

78 


VENICE  PRESERVED 


the  other  well  invented.  By  a  happy  coincidence  Saint-Real's  story  offered 
just  that  type  of  hero  which  Otway  could  best  portray,  which  indeed  he 
had  already  so  clearly  bodied  forth  both  in  the  Prince  of  Don  Carlos  and 
in  Castalio  of  The  Orphan,  and  which  he  saw  mirrored  whenever  he  looked 
into  his  own  heart.  "  Nature  is  there,"  said  Dryden  finely  of  Venice  Pre- 
served, and,  with  Jaffeir  in  mind,  he  might  have  added,  "  Otway's  nature." 
The  intense  sensibility  of  Saint-Real's  unhappy  conspirator  that  dwells  upon 
"  the  cries  of  children  trodden  under  feet,  the  groans  of  old  men  murdered, 
and  the  shrieks  of  women  dishonored,  palaces  falling,  temples  on  fire,  and 
holy  places  covered  with  blood "  blends  with  a  weakness  of  will  that  this 
way  and  that  divides  the  mind  in  an  ecstasy  of  torture.  The  irresponsible 
impressionable  youth,  half-crazed  by  passionate  affection  and  enslaved  by 
romantic  impulses,  was  a  stranger  to  the  conventional  "  heroic  "  drama,  but 
was  no  stranger  to  the  little  circle  of  actors  at  the  Duke's  Theatre,  observers 
of  the  infatuation  that  wrecked  Otway's  life.  But  neither  to  tragic  fiction 
nor  to  his  tragic  experience  was  the  dramatist  indebted  for  that  most  tri- 
umphant of  all  his  creations,  the  exquisite  Belvidera.  It  is  true  that  this 
sensitive  figure  is  of  the  sisterhood  of  the  Queen  in  Don  Carlos  and  Monimia 
in  The  Orphan,  for  Otway  may  be  charged  not  unjustly  with  drawing  but 
one  man  and  one  woman ;  but  in  the  blending  of  tenderness  and  tragic 
power,  she  rises  far  above  these  other  selves  into  the  lofty  company  of  those 
supreme  in  suffering,  Desdemona,  the  Duchess  of  Malfi,  and  Beatrice  Cenci. 
From  the  moment  when  she  comes  weeping  forth,  "  shining  through  tears 
like  April  suns  in  showers,"  she  is  all  compact  of  brightness  and  sweetness, 
purity  and  truth,  unshaken  dignity  and  unfaltering  love.  '  If  she  does  not 
release  with  her  own  hands  all  the  raging  winds  of  passion  that  shake  the 
hearts  and  souls  of  these  Venetians,  she  seems  the  centre  of  every  whirling 
storm  of  grief  and  anger.  It  is  indeed  her  situation  that,  often  without 
her  knowledge  and  desire,  gives  impulse  to  action.  Her  rejection  by  her 
father  reduces  the  husband,  whose  lust  of  revenge  she  vainly  seeks  to  allay 
in  a  scene  unrivalled  for  clinging  devotion,  to  a  desperate  abandonment  which 
is  quick  to  welcome  Pierre's  fatal  suggestion.  Again  she  stands  in  pathetic 
futility  without  help  or  hope  between  the  ill-starred  Jaffeir  and  the  friend 
whose  ruin  he  has  effected.  Once,  however,  she  touches  wittingly  all  the 
springs  of  action  in  that  splendid  appeal  to  Jaffeir  which  awakens  his  sus- 
ceptibility to  the  mixed  motives  of  personal  revenge  upon  the  old  lecher  and 
imaginative  sympathy  with  the  innocent  victims  of  impending  doom.  Thus 
it  is  she  who  preserves  Venice.  Her  touching  intercession  with  her  father 
wins  the  old  senator  to  her  side  and  seems  to  check  the  final  catastrophe — 
but  only  for  a  moment.  In  the  last  scene,  so  steeped  in  the  drowsiness  of 
woe,  her  shattered  sense  and  breaking  heart  succumb  to  fearful  visions,  and 
Belvidera  perishes  amid  the  pitiful  wreckage.  To  the  irresolute  Jaffeir  there 
could  be  no  better  antitype  than  the  intrepid  Pierre  with  his  steadfastness 
of  purpose  and  unshrinking  loyalty  to  honor  even  when  rooted  in  dis- 

79 


VENICE  PRESERVED 


honor— a  gallant  specimen  of  that  militant  sort  which  views  life  as  a 
straight  line.  To  the  gravity  of  Belvidera,  the  levity  of  Aquilina,  laughing- 
eyed  and  open-armed,  might  serve  as  a  like  foil,  if  the  comic  scenes  in  which 
the  courtesan  appears  were  not  degraded  by  buffoonery  into  wretched  ex- 
crescences upon  the  guiding  motives  of  dramatic  action. 

This  leads  us  to  a  brief  consideration  of  the  plot,  so  varied  in  its  move- 
ment, so  intense  in  its  interest.  Hazlitt  with  true  discernment  finds  both 
charm  and  power  in  "  the  awful  suspense  of  the  situations,  the  conflict  of 
duty  and  passions,  the  intimate  bonds  that  unite  the  characters  together  and 
that  are  violently  rent  asunder  like  the  parting  of  soul  and  body,  the  solemn 
march  of  the  tragical  events  to  the  fatal  catastrophe  that  winds  up  and 
closes  over  all."  Though  the  drama  strictly  regards  classical  limitations  of 
time  and  place — one  critical  day  in  Venice — the  action  is  attended  by  many 
romantic  accessories :  wealth  of  actors  and  of  incidents,  low  buffoonery  de- 
signed perhaps  as  relief,  the  visible  horrors  of  on-stage  deaths,  the  heroine's 
madness,  and  the  two  ghostly  apparitions.  The  tolling  of  the  bell  in  the  fifth 
act  has  been  likened,  in  "  its  genuine  melodramatic  thrill,"  to  the  trumpet  in 
the  lists  of  Ashby-de-la-Zouch  and  to  the  horn  of  Hernani.  Otway  was  too 
close  a  student  of  Elizabethan  language  and  stage-effects  to  stand  with  the 
classicists.  Moreover,  artificial  rules  and  conventional  traditions  impose  few 
fetters  upon  a  master  of  passion  swaying  it  to  his  needs.  Organic  harmony 
and  emotional  intensity  (Noel)  are  here  sovereign  traits. 

Otway  has  been  charged  with  small  attention  to  local  color.  But  in 
this  tragedy  the  background  is  far  more  clearly  defined  than  in  Shakspere's 
plays  of  Venice.  Mention  of  the  Rialto,  St.  Mark's,  the  Ducal  Palace,  and 
"  the  Adriatic  wedded  by  our  Duke "  gives  the  requisite  sense  of  locality. 
What  is  much  more  to  the  purpose,  the  seventeenth  century  imagination,  alive 
to  every  hint  of  Spanish  intrigue  and  Venetian  mystery,  must  have  responded 
quickly  to  the  spirited  portrayal  of  the  brewing  of  conspiracy  and  of  the 
corruption  and  decay  of  the  great  Republic.  For  much  of  this  atmosphere 
Otway  was  indebted  to  Saint-Real,  who  had  not  a  little  of  the  artist  in  him ; 
but  the  dramatist  everywhere  displays  a  full  sense  of  the  literary  values  of 
historical  associations  and  popular  conceptions.  Otway's  art  has  stamped 
the  image  of  Venice  on  others  than  on  Byron. 

The  style  of  the  play  is  simple — how  simple  and  restrained  anyone  will 
recognize  who  compares  it  with  the  fret  and  fury  of  heroic  drama.  But 
Otway's  effortless  simplicity  never  thins  to  meagreness,  nor  does  his  reserve 
ever  congeal  to  icy  formality.  If  his  lines  lack  the  sonorous  energy  of 
Dryden's  full  tones  in  All  for  Love,  they  possess  a  nervous  strength  be- 
gotten by  the  union  of  specific,  almost  Saxon,  diction  with  uninvolved  sen- 
tence-structure. He  is  often  monosyllabic  for  many  lines  together;  and  he 
achieves  a  compactness  of  phrase  admirably  adapted  to  passionate  utterance. 
Though  there  are  in  Otway  few  or  no  lines  that  flash  upon  the  inward  eye 
with  penetrating  truth  and  wisdom  universal  in  its  application,  there  is  every- 

80 


VENICE  PKESERVED 


where  transparent  lucidity  of  expression.  There  is  little  glamor  in  him, 
but  his  imagery  is  apt,  unlabored,  natural,  and  familiar.  The  full  ear  of 
corn,  the  snare  of  the  fowler,  owls  with  heavy  wings,  the  tender  infant  in 
its  cradle,  the  beggar  brat  under  a  hedge,  the  grumbling  of  the  winds,  wrecks 
in  the  rough  tide — these  are  his  effective  similes.  Otway's  blank  verse,  like 
that  of  Dryden  and  other  contemporaries  who  first  wrought  in  rime,  confesses 
the  influence  of  the  heroic  couplet;  hence  we  must  not  look  here  for  that 
unchecked  flow  of  thought  from  line  to  line,  that  rapturous  harmony  of 
meaning  and  measure,  of  which  the  Elizabethans  knew  the  secret.  This  is  a 
self-contained  metre,  incapable  perhaps  of  flexible  rhythm  and  haunting 
melodies,  but  responsive  in  its  latent  vigor  to  the  vehement  demands  of 
passionate  action. 

"  There  was  a  time  when  Otway  charmed  the  stage."  And  the  time 
was  of  long  duration.  For  over  a  hundred  and  fifty  years  from  its  suc- 
cessful presentation  early  in  1682,  Venice  Preserved  held  English  audiences, 
and  in  many  adaptations  and  translations  pleased  the  Continent.  Indeed  in 
the  eighteenth  and  early  nineteenth  centuries  it  seems  to  have  been  acted 
more  frequently  than  any  play  outside  of  Shakspere.  English  stage  history 
records  no  less  than  twenty-one  revivals  before  1845.  And  the  greatest 
actors  have  filled  the  leading  roles :  Mrs.  Barry,  Mrs.  Porter,  Mrs.  Seymour, 
Mrs.  Siddons,  Miss  O'Neill,  and  Mrs.  Warner  appearing  as  Belvidera ;  and 
Betterton,  Quin,  Garrick,  Kemble,  Macready,  Young,  and  Phelps  as  Jaffeir  or 
Pierre. 


VENICE    PRESERVED 

OR 

A   PLOT   DISCOVERED 

PROLOGUE 

In  these  distracted  times,  when  each  man  dreads 

The  bloody  stratagems  of  busy  heads ; 

When  we  have  feared  three  years  we  know  not  what, 

Till  witnesses  began  to  die  o'  th'  rot, 

What  made  our  poet  meddle  with  a  plot? 

Was't  that  he  fancied,  for  the  very  sake 

And  name  of  plot,  his  trifling  play  might  take? 

For  there's  not  in't  one  inch-board  evidence, 

But  'tis,  he  says,  to  reason  plain  and  sense, 

And  that  he  thinks  a  plausible  defence. 

81 


VENICE  PRESERVED 


Were  truth  by  sense  and  reason  to  be  tried, 

Sure  all  our  swearers  might  be  laid  aside: 

No,  of  such  tools  our  author  has  no  need, 

To  make  his  plot,  or  make  his  play  succeed; 

He,  of  black  bills,  has  no  prodigious  tales, 

Or  Spanish  pilgrims  cast  ashore  in  Wales; 

Here's  not  one  murthered  magistrate  at  least, 

Kept  rank  like  ven'son  for  a  city  feast, 

Grown  four  days  stiff,  the  better  to  prepare 

And  fit  his  pliant  limbs  to  ride  in  chair: 

Yet  here's  an  army  raised,  though  under  ground, 

But  no  man  seen,  nor  one  commission  found; 

Here  is  a  traitor  too,  that's  very  old, 

Turbulent,  subtle,  mischievous,  and  bold, 

Bloody,  revengeful,  and  to  crown  his  part, 

Loves  fumbling  with  a  wench,  with  all  his  heart; 

Till  after  having  many  changes  passed, 

In  spite  of  age  (thanks  Heaven)  is  hanged  at  last; 

Next  is  a  senator  that  keeps  a  whore, 

In  Venice  none  a  higher  office  bore; 

To  lewdness  every  night  the  lecher  ran, 

Show  me,  all  London,  such  another  man, 

Match  him  at  Mother  Creswold's  if  you  can. 

O  Poland,  Poland!  had  it  been  thy  lot, 

T'  have  heard  in  time  of  this  Venetian  plot, 

Thou  surely  chosen  hadst  one  king  from  thence, 

And  honored  them,  as  thou  hast  England  since. 


DRAMATIS  PERSONS 


DUKE  OF   VENICE. 

PKIULI,  Father  to   Belvidera,   a  Senator. 

ANTONIO,  a  Fine  Speaker  in  the  Senate. 

JAFFEIR, 

PIERRE, 

RENAULT, 

BECAMAR, 

SFINOSA, 

THEODORE, 

ELIOT, 

REVILLIDO,    }.  Conspirators. 

DURAND, 

MEZZANA, 

BRAIN  VEIL, 

TtRNON, 

BRABE, 
RETROSI, 


BELVIDERA. 
AQUILINA. 

Two   Women,  Attendants  on  Belvidera, 

Two    Women,    Servants   to    Aquilina. 

The  Council  of  Ten. 

Officer. 

Guards. 

Friar. 

Executioner  and  Rabble. 


SCENE. — VENICE. 
82 


VENICE  PRESERVED 


ACT  I,  Sc.  I. 


ACT  I 

SCENE  I 
Enter   PRIULI   and   JAFFEIR. 

Priu.     No  more!  I'll  hear  no  more;  begone 

and  leave. 
Jaff.     Not  hear  me!  by   my  sufferings  but 

you   shall ! 

My  lord,  my  lord!  I'm  not  that  abject  wretch 
You    think    me:    patience!    whore's    the    dis- 
tance  throws 

Me  back  so  far,  but  I  may  boldly  speak 
In   right,    though   proud   oppression   will   not 

hear   me! 

Priu.     Have  you  not  wronged  me? 
Jaff.  Could   my    nature    e'er 

Have  brooked  injustice  or  the  doing  wrongs, 
I    need   not   now   thus   low  have  bent   myself 
To   gain  a  hearing  from  a  cruel  father! 
Wronged    you  ? 

Priu.  Yes!     wronged     me,     in     the 

nicest  point: 
The   honor  of  my  house;  you  have  done  me 

wrong; 

You  may  remember  (for  I  now  will  speak, 
And  urge  its  baseness) :  when  you  first  came 

home 
From  travel,  with  such  hopes,  as  made  you 

looked    on 

By   all    men's   eyes,   a   youth   of  expectation; 
Pleased  with  your  growing  virtue,  I  received 

you: 
Courted,    and    sought    to    raise    you    to   your 

merits: 

My  house,  my   table,   nay   my  fortune  too, 
My   very    self,    was   yours;    you    might   have 

used    me 

To    your   best   service;    like   an    open   friend, 
I     treated,    trusted    you,    and    thought    you 

mine; 

When  in  requital  of  my  best  endeavors, 
You  treacherously  practised  to  undo  me, 
Seduced    the   weakness    of   my   age's   darling, 
My  only  child,  and  stole  her  from  my  bosom: 
O   Belvidera! 

Jaff.  'Tis    to   me   you    owe   her, 

Childless    you    had     been    else,     and    in    the 

grave, 
Your     name     extinct,     nor     no     more     I  riuli 

heard   of. 
You    may    remember,    scarce    five    years    are 

past, 

Since   in    your   brigandine    you    sailed   to   see 
The    Adriatic    wedded   by   our    Duke, 
And    I   was   with   you:   your   unskilful   pilot 
Dashed     us     upon     a     rock;     when     to     your 

boat 

You  made  for  safety;  entered  first  yourself; 
The  affrighted  Belvidera  following  next, 
As   she    stood   trembling   on    the   vessel    side, 
Was  by  a  wave  washed  off  into  the  deep, 
When  instantly  I  plunged  into   the  sea, 


And  buffeting  the  billows  to  her  rescue, 
Redeemed    her    life    with    half    the    loss    of 

mine; 
Like    a    rich    conquest    in    one    hand    I    bore 

her, 

And  with  the  other  dashed  the  saucy  waves, 
That  thronged  and  pressed  to  rob  me  of  my 

prize: 
I   brought  her,   gave  her  to  your   despairing 

arms: 

Indeed  you  thanked  me;  but  a  nobler  grati- 
tude 
Rose    in    her    soul:    for   from    that    hour    she 

loved    me, 

Till  for  her  life  she  paid  me  with  herself. 
Priu.     You  stole  her  from  me;  like  a  thief 

you   stole  her, 
At    dead    of    night;    that    cursed    hour    you 

chose 

To   rifle   me   of  all   my  heart  held  dear. 
May   all    your   joys    in    her   prove    false    like 

mine; 

A  sterile  fortune,  and  a  barren  bed, 
Attend   you   both;    continual    discord    make 
Your   days   and   nights   bitter   and   grievous: 

still 

May    the  hard   hand  of   a   vexatious   need 
Oppress,    and    grind    you;    till    at    last    you 

find 

The   curse   of   disobedience   all   your   portion. 
Jaff.     Half    of    your    curse    you    have    be- 
stowed   in    vain ; 
Heaven    has    already    crowned    our    faithful 

loves 
With    a   young    boy,    sweet   as    his    mother's 

beauty. 
May   he  live   to  prove  more  gentle  than  his 

grandsire, 
And  happier  than  his  father! 

Priu.  Rather  live 

To    bait    thee    for    his    bread,    and    din    your 

ears 
With     hungry     cries;     whilst     his     unhappy 

mother 

Sits  down  and  weeps  in   bitterness  of  want. 
Jaff.     You   talk  as   if  'twould  please  you. 
Priu.  'Twould,  by  Heaven. 

Once    she   was    dear   indeed;    the    drops   that 

fell 
From    my    sad    heart,    when    she    forgot    her 

duty, 

The  fountain  of  my  life  was  not  so  precious: 
But  she  is   gone,  and  if  I  am  a  man 
I   will  forget  her. 
Jaff.     Would  I  were  in  my  grave! 
Priu.  And  she  too  with  thee; 

For,    living    here,    you're    but    my    curst    re- 
membrancers 
I  once  was  happy. 

././•;.     You  use  me  thus,  because  you  know 

my   soul 

Is   fond  of   Belvidera:    you   perceive 
My    life    feeds    on    her,    therefore    thus    you 

treat    me; 


83 


ACT  I,  Sc.  I. 


VENICE  PRESERVED 


Oh!  could  my  soul  ever  have  known  satiety, 
Were  1  that  thief,  the  doer  of  such  wrongs 
As  you  upbraid  me  with,  what  hinders  me, 
But  I  might  send  her  back  to  you  with 

contumely, 

And   court   my    fortune   where   she   would   be 
kinder! 

Priu.     You   dare    not    do't 

Jaff.  Indeed,  my  lord,  I  dare  not. 

My    heart    that    awes    me    is    too    much    my 

master: 
Three   years   are    past   since    first    our   vows 

were    plighted. 
During  which  time,  the  world  must  bear  me 

witness, 

I  have  treated  Belvidera  like  your  daughter, 
The    daughter    of    a    senator    of    Venice; 
Distinction,    place,    attendance    and    observ- 
ance, 

Due     to    her    birth,    she    always    has    com- 
manded ; 

Out  of  my  little  fortune  I  have  done  this; 
Because  (though  hopeless  e'er  to  win  your 

nature) 
The  world  might  see,  I  loved  her  for  herself, 

Not  as  the  heiress  of  the  great  Priuli 

Priu.     No   more! 

Jaff.          Yes!  all,   and   then  adieu   for  ever. 
There's  not  a  wretch  that  lives  on   common 

charity 

But's  happier  than  me:  for  I  have  known 
The    luscious   sweets   of   plenty;    every   night 
Have  slept  with  soft  content  about  my  head, 
And   never   waked   but   to   a   joyful   morning; 
Yet  now  must  fall  like  a  full  ear  of  corn, 
Whose    blossom     scaped,    yet's    withered    in 

the  ripening. 

Priu.     Home  and   be  humble,   study   to   re- 
trench ; 

Discharge   the  lazy    vermin   of   thy   hall, 
Those  pageants  of  thy  folly, 
Reduce   the   glittering   trappings  of   thy   wife 
To  humble  weeds,  fit  for  thy  little  state; 
Then  to  some   suburb   cottage  both  retire; 
Drudge,    to    feed    loathsome    life:    get    brats, 
an*1,   starve — 

Home,  home,  I  say. [Exit  PRIULI. 

Jaff,  Yes,  if  my  heart  would  let  me — 

This    proud,    this    swelling    heart:    home     I 

would  go, 

But  that  my  doors  are  hateful  to  my  eyes, 
Filled  and  dammed  up  with  gaping  creditors, 
Watchful  as  fowlers  when  their  game  will 

spring; 

I  have  now  not  fifty  ducats  in  the  world, 
Yet  still  I  am  in  love,  and  pleased  with  ruin. 
O   Belvidera!   oh,   she   is   my   wife — 
And  we  will  bear  our  wayward  fate  together, 
But    ne'er   know    comfort   more. 

Enter  PIERRE. 

Pierr.  My  friend,  good  morrow! 

How  fares  the   honest  partner  of  my  heart? 


What,  melancholy!  not  a  word  to  spare  me? 
Jaff.       I'm     thinking,     Pierre,      how      that 
damned  starving  quality, 

Called  honesty,  got  footing  in  the  world. 
Pierr.     Why,    powerful    villainy    first     set 
it   up, 

For  its  own  ease  and  safety:  honest  men 

Are  the  soft  easy  cushions  on  which  knaves 

Repose   and   fatten.     Were    all    mankind   vil- 
lains, 

They'd    starve     each    other;    lawyers     would 
want    practice, 

Cut-throats    rewards;    each    man    would    kill 
his   brother 

Himself,   none   would  be   paid  or  hanged   for 
murder. 

Honesty  was  a  cheat  invented  first 

To  bind  the  hands  of  bold  deserving  rogues, 

That    fools    and    cowards    might    sit    safe    in 
power, 

And  lord  it  uncontrolled  above  their  betters. 
Jaff.     Then    honesty    is    but    a    notion. 
Pierr.  Nothing   else, 

Like  wit,  much  talked  of,  not  to  be  defined: 

He    that    pretends    to    most,    too,    has    least 
share  in't; 

'Tis  a  ragged  virtue:  honesty!  no  more  on't. 
Jaff.     Sure   thou   art   honest? 
Pierr.  So  indeed  men  think  me; 

But   they're  mistaken,   Jaffeir:   I  am  a   rogue 

As  well  as  they; 

A   fine   gay   bold-faced  villain,   as   thou   seest 
me; 

'Tis  true,  I  pay  my  debts  when  they're  con- 
tracted; 

I  steal  from  no  man;  would  not  cut  a  throat 

To    gain   admission   to  a    great    man's   purse, 

Or  a  whore's  bed;   I'd  not  betray  my  friend, 


place 


fortune:    I    scorn    to 


the 


To    get    his 

flatter 
A    blown-up    fool    above    me,    or    crush 

wretch  beneath  me, 
Yet,  Jaffeir,  for  all  this,  I   am  a  villain! 

Jaff.     A   villain 

Pierr.  Yes,  a  most  notorious  villain: 

To  see  the  suff'rings  of  my  fellow-creatures, 
And  own  myself  a  man:   to  see  our  senators 
Cheat    the   deluded   people   with   a    show 
Of  liberty,   which  yet   they  ne'er  must  taste 

of; 
They  say,  by  them  our  hands  are  free  from 

fetters, 
Yet    whom    they    please    they    lay    in    basest 

bonds; 
Bring     whom     they     please     to     infamy     and 

sorrow; 
Drive    us   like   wracks    down   the    rough    tide 

of  power, 

Whilst    no   hold's    left    to    save    us    from    de- 
struction; 

All  that  bear  this  are  villains;  and  I  one, 
Not  to  rouse  up  at  the  great  call  of  nature, 
And  check  the  growth  of  these  domestic 

spoilers, 


84 


VENICE  PRESERVED 


ACT  I,  Sc.  I. 


That   makes  us    slaves   and   tells    us   'tis   our 

charter. 
Jaff.     O    Aquilina!     friend,     to     lose     such 

beauty, 

The    dearest    purchase    of    thy    noble    labors; 

She   was   thy  right  by  conquest,   as  by   love. 

Pierr.     O   Jaffeir!    I'd    so    fixed    my    heart 

upon    her, 

That  wheresoe'er  I   framed   a  scheme  of  life 
For   time  to  come,   she  was   my   only   joy 
With     which     I     wished     to     sweeten     future 

cares; 

I  fancied  pleasures,  none  but  one  that  loves 
And  dotes  as  I  did  can  imagine  like  'em: 
When  in  the  extremity  of  all  these  hopes, 
In  the  most  charming  hour  of  expectation, 
Then  when  our  eager  wishes  soar  the  high- 
est, 

Ready   to   stoop   and   grasp    the   lovely   game, 
A  haggard  owl,  a  worthless  kite  of  prey, 
With  his  foul  wings  sailed  in  and  spoiled  my 

quarry. 
Jaff.     I   know   the   wretch,    and   scorn    him 

as    thou   hat'st   him. 
Pierr.     Curse  on    the   common   good   that's 

so    protected, 
Where    every    slave    that    heaps    up    wealth 

enough 

To  do  much  wrong,  becomes  a  lord  of  right! 
I,  who  believed  no  ill  could  e'er  come  near 

me, 

Found  in  the  embraces  of  my  Aquilina 
A  wretched,  old  but  itching  senator; 
A  wealthy  fool,  that  had  bought  out  my 

title, 

A  rogue,  that  uses  beauty  like  a  lambskin, 
Barely  to  keep  him  warm:  that  filthy  cuckoo 

too 

Was  in  my  absence  crept  into  my  nest, 
And  spoiling  all  my  brood  of  noble  pleasure. 
Jaff.     Didst  thou  not  chase  him  thence? 
Pierr.  1  did;  and  drove 

The  rank  old  bearded  Hirco  stinking  home: 
The  matter  was  complained  of  in  the  Senate, 
I  summoned  to  appear,  and  censured  basely, 
For  violating  something  they  call  privilege — 
This  was  the  recompense  of  [all]  my  serv- 
ice: 

Would  I'd  been  rather  beaten  by  a  coward! 
A  soldier's  mistress,  Jaffeir,  's  his  religion, 
When  that's  profaned,  all  other  ties  are 

broken; 
That    even    dissolves    all    former    bonds    of 

service, 

And  from  that  hour  I  think  myself  as  free 
To  be  the  foe  as  e'er  the  friend  of  Venice. — 
Nay,  dear  Revenge,  whene'er  thou  call'st 

I'm  ready. 
Jaff.     I    think    no    safety    can    be    here    for 

virtue, 
And   grieve,  my  friend,   as  much  as   thou  to 

live 

In  such  a  wretched  state  as  this  of  Venice; 
Where  all  agree  to  spoil  the  public  good, 


And    villains    fatten    with    the    brave    man's 

labors. 
Pierr.     We  have  neither  safety,  unity,  nor 

peace, 

For   the    foundation's   lost   of   common    good; 
Justice  is  lame  as  well  as  blind  amongst  us; 


to     their     ends     that 
of    some     new 


O    Jaffeir!    then    might'st 


The     laws     (corrupted 

make    'em) 
Serve     but    for     instruments 

tyranny, 
That    every    day    starts    up    to    enslave    us 

deeper: 
Now   could   this    glorious   cause   but   find  out 

friends 
To    do    it    right! 

thou 

Not  wear  these  seals  of  woe  upon  thy  face, 
The  proud  Priuli  should  be  taught  humanity, 
And  learn  to  value  such  a  son  'as  thou  art. 
I  dare  not  speak !  But  my  heart  bleeds  this 

moment ! 
Jjfi.     Curst    be    the    cause,    though    I    thy 

friend    be    part    on't: 

Let   me  partake   the    troubles   of    thy   bosom, 
For    I    am    used    to   misery,    and   perhaps 
May  find  a  way  to   sweeten  't   to   thy  spirit. 
Pierr.     Too   soon   it  will   reach  thy  knowl- 
edge  

Jaff.  Then    from    thee 

Let  it  proceed.    There's  virtue  in  thy  friend- 
ship 
Would    make    the     saddest    tale    of    sorrow 

pleasing, 

Strengthen  my  constancy,  and  welcome  ruin. 
Pierr.     Then    thou    art    ruined! 
Jaff.  That  I  long  since  knew, 

I    and    ill-fortune    have    been    long    acquaint- 
ance. 
Pierr.     I  passed  this  very  moment  by   thy 

doors, 
And    found    them    guarded    by    a    troop    of 

villains; 

The    sons   of   public   rapine   were    destroying: 
They    told   me,    by    the    sentence   of    the   law 
They   had    commission    to    seize    all   thy   for- 
tune, 

Nay  more,  Priuli's  cruel  hand  hath  signed  it. 
Here   stood  a  ruffian  with  a  horrid  face 
Lording    it    o'er   a    pile    of   massy   plate, 
Tumbled    into    a    heap    for    public    sale: 
There    was    another    making    villainous    jests 
At  thy  undoing;  he  had  ta'en   possession 
Of  all  thy  ancient  most  domestic  ornaments, 
Rich      hangings,     intermixed     and      wrought 

with    gold; 

The   very   bed,   which   on    thy   wedding-night 
Received   thee  to  the  arms  of  Belvidera, 
The  scene  of  all  thy   joys,   was   violated 
By   the  coarse   hands   of  filthy   dungeon   vil- 
lains, 
And    thrown    amongst    the    common    lumber. 

Jaff.     Now,   thank   Heaven 

Pierr.     Thank  Heaven !  for  what  ? 

Jaff.  That  I  am  not  worth  a  ducat. 


85 


ACT  I.  Sc.  I. 


VENICE  PRESERVED 


Pierr.     Curse  thy  dull  stars,  and  the  worst 

fate   of   Venice, 
Where    brothers,     friends,    and     fathers,    all 

are   false ; 
Where    there's    no    trust,    no    truth;    where 

innocence 
Stoops  under  vile  oppression,  and  vice  lords 

it. 

Hadst  thou  but   seen,   as   I   did,   how  at   last 
Thy    beauteous    Belvidera,    like    a    wretch 
That's  doomed  to  banishment,  came  weeping 

forth, 
Shining    through    tears,    like    April    suns    in 

showers 
That  labor  to  o'ercome   the  cloud  that  loads 

'em, 
Whilst    two   young   virgins,    on   whose    arms 

she    leaned, 
Kindly    looked    up,    and    at    her    grief    grew 

sad, 
As  if  they  catched  the  sorrows  that  fell  from 

her! 
Even    the    lewd    rabble    that    were    gathered 

round 

To  see  the  sight,  stood  mute  when  they  be- 
held  her; 

Governed    their    roaring    throats    and    grum- 
bled pity: 
I    could    have    hugged    the    greasy    rogues; 

they   pleased    me. 
Jaff.     I    thank    thee    for    this    story,    from 

my  soul, 

Since   now   I    know    the   worst   that   can    be- 
fall me: 
Ah,   Pierre!  I   have  a  heart,  that  could  have 

borne 
The  roughest  wrong  my  fortune  could  have 

done  me; 

But  when  I  think  what  Belvidera  feels, 
The  bitterness  her  tender  spirit  tastes  of, 
I  own  myself  a  coward:  bear  my  weakness, 
If  throwing  thus  my  arms  about  thy  neck, 
I  play  the  boy,  and  blubber  in  thy  bosom. 
Oh !  I  shall  drown  thee  with  my  sorrows ! 

Pierr.  Burn ! 

First  burn,  and  level  Venice  to  thy  ruin. 
What!    starve   like   beggars'   brats    in    frosty 

weather, 
Under    a     hedge,    and     whine    ourselves     to 

death! 

Thou,  or  thy  cause,  shall  never  want  assist- 
ance, 
Whilst  I   have  blood  or  fortune  fit  to   serve 

thee; 
Command    my    heart:    thou    art    every    way 

its  master. 
Jaff.     No;  there's  a  secret  pride  in  bravely 

dying. 
Pierr.     Rats  die  in  holes  and  corners,  dogs 

run    mad; 

Man  knows  a  braver  remedy  for  sorrow: 
Revenge!  the  attribute  of  gods,  they  stamped 

it 
With  their  great  image  on  our  natures;  die! 


Consider  well  the  cause  that  calls  upon  thee, 
And  if  thou'rt  base  enough,  die  then.  Re- 
member 

Thy  Belvidera  suffers;   Belvidera! 
Die! — damn     first! — what!     be     decently     in- 
terred 

In  a  churchyard,  and  mingle  thy  brave  dust 
With     stinking     rogues     that     rot     in     dirty 

winding-sheets, 
Surfeit-slain   fools,   the   common   dung   o'    th* 

soil. 

Jaff.     Oh! 
Pierr.        Well    said,    out    with    it,    swear   a 

little 

Jaff.  Swear! 

By    sea   and    air!    by   earth,   by    heaven    and 

hell, 

I   will   revenge   my   Belvidera's   tears! 
Hark   thee,   my   friend — Priuli — is — a   senator! 
Pierr.     A  dog! 
Jaff.  Agreed. 

Pierr.  Shoot  him. 

Jaff.  With  all  my  heart. 

No  more:  where  shall  we  meet  at  night? 

Pierr.  I'll  tell  thee; 

On  the  Rialto  every  night  at  twelve 
I   take  my  evening's  walk  of  meditation, 
There  we  two  will  meet,  and  talk  of  precious 

Mischief 

Jaff.     Farewell. 
Pierr.  At   twelve. 

Jaff.  At  any  hour,  my  plagues 

Will   keep   me   waking.  [Exit   PIERRE. 

Tell  me  why,  good  Heaven, 

Thou    mad'st    me    what    I    am,    with    all    the 

spirit, 

Aspiring    thoughts   and    elegant    desires 
That  fill  the  happiest  man  ?    Ah !  rather  why 
Didst   thou  not  form   me   sordid  as   my   fate, 
Base-minded,  dull,  and  fit  to  carry  burdens? 
Why  have  I   sense  to  know  the  curse  that's 

on    me? 
Is  this  just  dealing,  Nature?     Belvidera! 

Enter  BELVIDERA. 

Poor    Belvidera! 

Belv.  Lead  me,  lead  me,  my  virgins! 

To   that   kind  voice.     My   lord,   my   love,   my 
refuge ! 

Happy  my  eyes,  when  they  behold  thy  face: 

My    heavy   heart   will   leave   its   doleful   beat- 
ing 

At   sight  of  thee,   and  bound  with   sprightful 
joys. 

O    smile,    as    when    our   loves   were    in    their 
spring, 

And  cheer  my  fainting  soul. 

Jaff.  As  when  our  loves 

Were  in   their  spring?  has   then  my  fortune 
changed  ? 

Art  thou   not   Belvidera,   still   the   same, 

Kind,    good,    and    tender,    as    my    arms    first 
found  thee? 


86 


VENICE  PRESERVED 


ACT  II,  Sc.  I. 


If     thou    art    altered,     where     shall     I    have 

harbor  ? 
Where    ease    my   loaded    heart?     Oh!   where 

complain  ? 
Belv.     Does    this    appear    like    change,    or 

love  decaying? 

When  thus  I  throw  myself  into  thy  bosom, 
With  all  the  resolution  of  a  strong  truth: 
Beats  not  my  heart,  as  'twould  alarum  thine 
To  a  new  charge  of  bliss?  I  joy  more  in 

thee, 
Than  did  thy  mother  when  she  hugged  thee 

first, 

And  blessed  the  gods  for  all  her  travail  past. 
Jaff.  Can  there  in  women  be  such  glorious 

faith  ? 
Sure  all  ill  stories  of  thy  sex  are  false; 

0  woman !  lovely  woman !  Nature  made  thee 
To    temper  man:   we   had  been  brutes  with- 
out you; 

Angels  are  painted  fair,  to  look  like  you; 
There's  in  you  all  that  we  believe  of  heaven, 
Amazing   brightness,    purity    and    truth, 
Eternal  joy,  and  everlasting  love. 

Belv.     If    love   be    treasure,   we'll    be    won- 
drous   rich; 

1  have  so  much,  my  heart  will  surely  break 

with't; 

Vows  cannot  express  it;  when  I  would  de- 
clare 

How  great's  my  joy,  I  am  dumb  with  the 
big  thought; 

I  swell,  and  sigh,  and  labor  with  my  longing. 

O  lead  me  to  some  desert  wide  and  wild, 

Barren    as    our   misfortunes,    where   my    soul 

May   have   its   vent:   where   I   may  tell  aloud 

To  the  high  heavens,  and  ever  listening 
planet, 

With  what  a  boundless  stock  my  bosom's 
fraught; 

Where  I  may  throw  my  eager  arms  about 
thee, 

Give  loose  to  love  with  kisses,  kindling 
joy, 

And  let  off  all  the  fire  that's  in  my  heart. 
Jaff.  O  Belvidera!  double  I  am  a  beggar, 

Undone  by  fortune,  and  in  debt  to  thee; 

Want!  worldly  want!  that  hungry  meagre 
fiend 

Is  at  my  heels,  and  chases  me  in  view. 

Canst  thou  bear  cold  and  hunger?  Can 
these  limbs, 

Framed  for   the  tender  offices  of  love, 

Endure  the  bitter  gripes  of  smarting  pov- 
erty? 

When    banished    by    our    miseries    abroad 

(As   suddenly  we   shall   be),   to  seek  out 

(In  some  far  climate  where  our  names  are 
strangers) 

For   charitable    succor;    wilt   thou    then, 

When  in  a  bed  of  straw  we  shrink  to- 
gether, 

And  the  bleak  winds  shall  whistle  round  our 
heads, 


Wilt  thou  then  talk  thus  to  me?     Wilt  thou 

then 
Hush   my   cares    thus,   and   shelter   me    with 

love? 

Belv.     Oh,    I   will  love   thee,   even   in   mad- 
ness   love    thee. 
Though  my  distracted  senses  should  forsake 

me, 

I'd  find  some  intervals,  when  my  poor  heart 
Should  suage  itself  and  be  let  loose  to 

thine. 

Though    the    bare   earth   be   all   our   resting- 
place, 

Its  roots  our  food,  some  clift  our  habitation, 
I'll  make  this  arm  a  pillow  for  thy  head; 
And  as  thou   sighing  liest,   and  swelled  with 

sorrow, 

Creep   to  thy  bosom,  pour   the   balm   of  love 
Into  thy  soul,  and  kiss  thee  to  thy  rest; 
Then  praise  our  God,  and  watch  thee  till  the 

morning. 
Jaff.     Hear  this,  you  Heavens,  and  wonder 

how  you  made  her! 
Reign,    reign,    ye    monarchs    that    divide    the 

world, 

Busy   rebellion   ne'er  will   let   you   know 
Tranquillity   and  happiness   like  mine; 
Like     gaudy    ships,     the    obsequious    billows 

fall 

And  rise  again,  to  lift  you  in  your  pride; 
They  wait  but  for  a  storm  and   then  devour 

you: 

I,  in  my  private  bark,  already   wrecked, 
Like    a    poor    merchant    driven    on    unknown 

land, 
That  had  by  chance   packed   up   his   choicest 

treasure 

In  one  dear  casket,  and   saved  only  that, 
Since  I  must  wander  further  on  the  shore, 
Thus  hug  my  little,  but  my  precious  store; 
Resolved   to   scorn,   and    trust   my    fate    no 

more.  [Exeunt. 

ACT  II 

SCENE  I 
Enter  PIERRE  and  AQUILINA. 

Aquil.     By  all  thy   wrongs,   thou'rt   dearer 

to   my  arms 

Than  all  the  wealth  of  Venice:  prithee  stay, 
And  let  us  love  to-night. 

Pierr.  No:    there's    fool, 

There's  fool  about  thee:  when  a  woman  sells 
Her  flesh  to  fools,  her  beauty's  lost  to  me; 
They  leave  a  taint,  a  sully  where  they've 

past, 

There's   such  a  baneful  quality   about  'em, 
E'en     spoils     complexions     with     their     own 

nauseousness. 

They  infect  all  they  touch;  I  cannot  think 
Of  tasting  anything  a  fool  has  palled. 

Aquil.     I    loathe   and   scorn   that   fool   thou 
mean'st,   as   much 


87 


ACT  II,  Sc.  II. 


VENICE  PRESERVED 


Or  more  than  thou  canst;  but  the  beast  has 

gold 

That  makes  him  necessary;  power  too, 
To  qualify  my  character,  and  poise  me 
Equal  with  peevish  virtue,  that  beholds 
My  liberty  with  envy;  in  their  hearts 
Are  loose  as  I  am;  but  an  ugly  power 
Sits  in  their  faces,  and  frights  pleasures 

from  'em. 
Pierr.     Much    good   may't   do   you,   madam, 

with  your  senator. 
.•Li nil.     My  senator!  why,  canst  thou  think 

that  wretch 

E'er   filled    thy    Aquilina's    arms   with   pleas- 
ure? 
Think'st     thou,    because     I     sometimes     give 

him    leave 

To  foil  himself  at  what  he  is  unfit  for; 
Because  I  force  myself  to  endure  and  suffer 

him, 
Think'st   thou   I    love   him?     No,   by   all    the 

joys 
Thou    ever    gav'st    me,    his    presence    is    my 

penance; 
The    worst    thing    an    old    man    can    be 's    a 

lover, 

A   mere   memento   mori   to  poor   woman. 
I  never  lay  by  his  decrepit  side, 
But  all   that  night   I  pondered  on  my  grave. 
Pierr.     Would  he  were  well   sent   thither! 
Aquil.  That's  my  wish   too: 

For    then,    my    Pierre,    I    might    have    cause 

with  pleasure 
To    play    the    hypocrite.      Oh!    how    I    could 

weep 

Over   the   dying   dotard,   and  kiss   him   too, 
In  hopes   to   smother  him  quite;   then,  when 

the  time 

Was  come  to  pay  my  sorrows  at  his  funeral, 
For  he  has  already  made  me   heir   to   treas- 
ures, 
Would     make     me     out-act    a     real     widow's 

whining: 
How  could  I  frame  my  face  to  fit  my  mourn- 

ing, 
With     wringing    hands     attend    him     to     his 

grave, 

Fall  swooning  on  his  hearse;   take  mad  pos- 
session 
Even     of     the     dismal    vault     where    he     lay 

buried; 
There    like    the    Ephesian    matron    dwell,    till 

thou, 

My  lovely  soldier,  com'st  to  my  deliverance; 
Then  throwing  up  my  veil,  with  open  arms 
And  laughing  eyes,  run  to  new  dawning 

joy. 
Pierr.     No   more!     I   have  friends   to  meet 

me  here  to-night, 
And    must    be    private.      As    you    prize    my 

friendship, 
Keep  up  your  coxcomb:  let  him  not  pry  nor 

listen 
Nor  fisk  about  the  house  as  I  have  seen  him, 


Like    a   tame   mumping    squirrel   with    a   bell 

on; 

Curs  will  be  abroad  to  bite  him  if  you  do. 
Aquil.     What   friends   to  meet?  may   I   not 

be  of  your   council  ? 
Pierr.     How!   a    woman    ask   questions   out 

of   bed? 

Go    to    your    senator,    ask    him    what    passes 
Amongst    his    brethren,    he'll    hide    nothing 

from  you 

But  pump  not  me  for  politics.    No  more! 
Give  order  that  whoever  in  my  name 
Comes    here,    receive    admittance:    so    good- 
night. 

Aquil.     Must   we    ne'er   meet   again!     Em- 
brace  no  more ! 

Is    love   so   soon   and   utterly   forgotten ! 
Pierr.     As     you     henceforward    treat    your 

fool,    I'll    think    on't. 
Aquil.     Curst     be     all     fools,     and     doubly 

curst  myself, 

The  worst  of  fools— I   die  if  he  forsakes   me; 
And    now    to    keep    him,    heaven    or    hell    in- 
struct   me.  [Exeunt. 

SCENE  II 

THE     RIALTO 

Enter  JAFFEIR. 

Jaff.     I  am  here,  and  thus,  the   shades   of 

night  around  me, 

I  look  as  if  all   hell  were  in   my  heart, 
And  I  in  hell.    Nay,  surely  'tis  so  with  me; — 
For  every  step  I  tread,  methinks  some  fiend 
Knocks    at   my    breast,    and    bids    it    not    be 

quiet: 
I've     heard,     how     desperate    wretches,     like 

myself, 
Have    wandered    out    at    this    dead    time    of 

night 

To  meet   the   foe  of   mankind   in   his  walk: 
Sure  I'm  so  curst,  that,   tho'  of  Heaven   for- 
saken, 

No  minister  of  darkness   cares   to   tempt  me. 
Hell!   hell!   why   sleepest  thou? 

Enter  PIERRE. 

Pierr.  Sure  I  have  stayed  too  long: 

The    clock    has    struck,    and    I    may    lose    my 

proselyte. 
Speak,  who   goes   there? 

Jaff.  A  dog,  that  comes  to  howl 

At   yonder   moon:    what's    he   that   asks    the 

question  ? 
Pierr.     A    friend    to    dogs,    for    they    are 

honest   creatures 

And  ne'er  betray   their  masters;   never  fawn 
On    any     that     they     love    not.       Well     met, 

friend: 
Jaffeir! 

Jaff.     The  same.     O  Pierre!  thou  art  come 

in    season, 
I   was   just    going   to  pray. 


88 


VENICE  PRESERVED 


ACT  II,  Sc.  II. 


Pierr.  Ah,    that's    mechanic, 

Priests    make    a    trade    on't,    and   yet    starve 

by  it  too: 
No    praying,    it    spoils    business,    and    time's 

precious; 
Where's    Belvidera? 

Jaff.  For   a  day  or   two 

I've  lodged  her  privately  till  I  see  farther 
What  fortune  will  do  with  me?  Prithee, 

friend, 

If    thou   wouldst    have    me   fit    to   hear    good 
counsel, 

Speak   not   of   Belvidera 

Pierr.  Speak  not   of  her? 

Jaff.     Oh    no! 

Pierr.  Nor   name  her?     May   be  I 

wish   her  well. 
Jaff.     Who    well? 

Pierr.        Thy    wife,    thy    lovely    Belvidera; 
I    hope    a    man    may    wish    his    friend's    wife 

well, 
And   no  harm   done! 

Jaff.  Y' are  merry,   Pierre! 

Pierr.  I    am   so: 

Thou  shalt  smile  too,  and  Belvidera  smile; 
We'll  all  rejoice;  here's  something  to  buy 

pins, 
Marriage  is  chargeable. 

Jaff.  I   but   half  wished 

To  see  the   Devil,   and  he's   here  already. 
Well! 
What     must     this     buy,     rebellion,     murder, 

treason? 
Tell   me   which   way    I    must   be   damned   for 

this. 
Pierr.     When   last   we    parted,    we   had    no 

qualms  like  these, 
But    entertained    each    other's    thoughts    like 

men 
Whose    souls    were    well    acquainted.      Is    the 

world 
Reformed    since    our    last    meeting?      What 

new     miracles 

Have     happened?      Has     Priuli's     heart     re- 
lented? 
Can   he   be   honest? 

Jaff.  Kind  Heaven!  let   heavy   curses 

Gall    his    old    age;    cramps,    aches,    rack    his 

bones; 

And   bitterest  disquiet  wring  his  heart; 
Oh,    let    him    live    till    life    become    his    bur- 
den! 

Let  him  groan  under't  long,  linger  an  age 
In  the  worst  agonies-  and  pangs  of  death, 
And  find  its  ease  but  late! 

Pierr.  Nay,  couldst  thou  not 

As  well,  my  friend,  have  stretched  the  curse 

to   all 

The  Senate  round,  as  to  one  single   villain? 
Jaff.     But    curses    stick    not:    could    I    kill 

with    cursing, 
By    Heaven,    I    know    not    thirty    heads    in 

Venice 
Should   not   be   blasted;    senators   should   rot 


Like  dogs  on  dunghills;  but  their  wives  and 

daughters 

Die  of  their  own  diseases.  Oh,  for  a  curse 
To  kill  with! 

Pierr.     Daggers,  daggers,  are  much  better! 
Jaff.     Ha! 
Pierr.        Daggers. 

Jaff.  But  where  are  they? 

Pierr.  Oh,    a    thousand 

May  be  disposed  in  honest  hands  in  Venice. 
Jaff.     Thou    talk'st   in   clouds. 
Pierr.  But   yet  a   heart  half  wronged 

As   thine  has  been,  would  find   the  meaning, 

Jaffeir. 
Jaff.     A    thousand    daggers,    all    in    honest 

hands ; 

And  have  not  I  a  friend  will  stick  one  here? 
Pierr.     Yes,  if  I  thought  thou  wert  not  to 

be  cherished 

To  a  nobler  purpose,  I'd  be  that  friend. 
But  thou  hast  better  friends,  friends,  whom 

thy   wrongs 
Have   made    thy    friends;    friends    worthy    to 

be   called  so; 

I'll  trust  thee  with  a  secret:  there  are  spirits 
This  hour  at  work.  But  as  thou  art  a  man, 
Whom  I  have  picked  and  chosen  from  the 

world, 
Swear,    that    thou    wilt    be    true    to    what    I 

utter, 
And  when  I  have  told  thee,  that  which  only 

gods 

And  men  like  gods  are  privy  to,  then  swear, 
No  chance  or  change  shall  wrest  it  from 

thy   bosom. 
Jaff.     When  thou  wouldst  bind  me,  is  there 

need  of  oaths? 
(Greensickness    girls    lose    maidenheads    with 

such    counters) 
For    thou'rt    so    near    my    heart,    that    thou 

mayst   see 
Its  bottom,  sound  its  strength,  and  firmness 

to  thee: 

Is   coward,   fool,   or  villain,  in   my  face? 
If   I   seem   none  of  these,   I  dare  believe 
Thou   wouldst   not   use   me  in   a   little   cause, 
For  I  am  fit  for  honor's  toughest  task; 
Nor  ever  yet  found  fooling  was  my  province; 
And    for    a    villainous    inglorious    enterprise, 
I   know   thy   heart    so   well,    I   dare   lay   mine 
Before  thee,   set   it  to   what  point  thou   wilt. 
Pierr.     Nay,  it's  a  cause  thou  wilt  be  fond 

of,  Jaffeir. 

For  it  is  founded   on  the  noblest  basis, 
Our   liberties,   our   natural   inheritance; 
There's  no  religion,  no  hypocrisy  in't; 
We'll    do    the    business,    and    ne'er    fast    and 

pray   for't: 

Openly  act  a  deed,  the  world  shall  gaze 
With   wonder   at,   and    envy   when    it's   done. 
Jaff.     For    liberty! 

Pierr.  For  liberty,   my  friend! 

Thou     shalt     be     fre~d     from     base     Priuli's 
tyranny, 


ACT  II,  Sc.  III. 


VENICE  PRESERVED 


And   thy   sequestered   fortunes   healed   again. 
I    shall  be  freed  from   opprobrious  wrongs, 
That    press    me    now,    and    bend    my    spirit 

downward : 

All    Venice   free,   and  every    growing   merit 
Succeed    to    its    just    right;    fools    shall    be 

pulled 
From    wisdom's    seat;    those    baleful    unclean 

birds, 

Those    lazy    owls,    who    (perched    near    For- 
tune's   top) 

Sit    only    watchful    with    their    heavy    wings 
To     cuff     down     new-fledged     virtues,     that< 

would  rise 
To     nobler     heights,    and    make    the     grove 

harmonious. 
Jaff.     What   can    I    do? 

Pierr.  Canst  thou  not  kill  a  senator? 

Jaff.     Were    there    one    wise    or    honest,    I 

could  kill  him 
For    herding    with    that    nest    of    fools    and 

knaves. 

By  all  my  wrongs,  thou  talk'st  as  if  revenge 
Were  to  be  had,  and  the  brave  story  warms 

me. 

Pierr.     Swear,    then ! 

Jaff.  I  do,  by  all  those  glittering  stars 

And  yond  great   ruling  planet  of  the   night! 
By  all  good  powers  above,  and  ill  below! 
By  love  and  friendship,  dearer  than  my  life! 
No  power   or  death   shall  make   me   false   to 

thee. 
Pierr.     Here   we   embrace,    and    I'll    unlock 

my    heart. 

A  council's  held  hard  by,  where  the  destruc- 
tion 
Of   this    great    empire's    hatching:    there   I'll 

lead    thee! 

But  be  a  man,  for  thou  art  to  mix  with  men 
Fit  to  disturb  the  peace  of  all  the  world, 

And  rule  it  when  it's  wildest 

Jaff.  I   give    thee    thanks 

For  this  kind  warning:  yes,  I  will  be  a  man, 
And     charge     thee,     Pierre,     whene'er     thou 

seest    my    fears 

Betray  me  less,  to  rip  this  heart  of  mine 
Out  of  my  breast,  and  show  it  for  a  coward's. 
Come,    let's    begone,    for    from    this    hour    I 

chase 

All  little  thoughts,  all   tender  human   follies 
Out    of    my    bosom:    vengeance    shall    have 

room: 
Revenge ! 

Pierr.    And   liberty ! 

Jaff.  Revenge !    revenge ! 

[Exeunt 

SCENE    III 

The  Scene   changes  to  AQUILINA'S   house,   the 
Greek    Courtesan. 
Enter    RENAULT. 

Renault.     Why    was    my    choice    ambition, 
the  first  ground 


A  wretch  can  build  on?  It's  indeed  at  dis- 
tance 

A   good  prospect,  tempting  to  the  view, 

The  height  delights  us,  and  the  mountain 
top 

Looks  beautiful,  because  it's  nigh  to  heaven, 

But  we  ne'er  think  how  Sandy's  the  foun- 
dation, 

What  storm  will  batter,  and  what  tempest 
shake  us ! 

Who's    there? 

Enter    SPINOSA. 

Spin.  Renault,    good   morrow!   for   by 

this  time 
I    think    the    scale    of   night    has    turned    the 

balance, 
And     weighs     up     morning:     has     the     clock 

struck  twelve? 
Ren.     Yes,  clocks  will  go  as  they  are  set. 

But    man, 

Irregular    man's    ne'er    constant,    never    cer- 
tain: 
I've   spent  at   least   three   precious   hours   of 

darkness 

In   waiting   dull   attendance;    'tis    the   curse 
Of    diligent    virtue    to    be    mixed    like    mine, 
With  giddy  tempers,  souls  but  half  resolved. 
Spin.     Hell   seize   that   soul   amongst   us   it 

can  frighten! 
Ren.     What's    then    the    cause    that    I    am 

here   alone? 
Why   are  we  not  together? 

Enter  ELIOT. 

O  sir,  welcome! 
You    are    an    Englishman:     when     treason's 

hatching 
One    might    have    thought    you'd    not    have 

been    behindhand. 

In  what  whore's  lap  have  you  been  lolling? 
Give     but    an     Englishman     his     whore     and 

ease, 

Beef  and  a  sea-coal  fire,  he's  yours  for  ever. 
Eliot.     Frenchman,   you  are   saucy. 
Ren.  How! 

Enter  BEDAMAR  the  Ambassador,  THEODORE, 
BRAINVEIL,  DURAND,  BRABE,  REVILLIDO, 
MEZZANA,  TERNON,  RETROSI,  Conspirators. 

Beda.  At  difference,   fie! 

Is    this    a    time    for    quarrels?     Thieves    and 

rogues 
Fall  out  and  brawl:  should  men  of  your  high 

calling, 

Men    separated   by    the    choice   of   Providence 
From    the   gross   heap    of  .mankind,    and    set 

here 
In    this    great    assembly    as    in    one     great 

jewel, 
To  adorn   the  bravest  purpose  it  e'er  smiled 

on, — 
Should  you  like  boys  wrangle  for  trifles? 


90 


VENICE  PRESERVED 


ACT  H,  Sc.  III. 


Ren.  Boys ! 

Beda.     Renault,  thy  hand! 

Ren.  I  thought  I'd  given  my  heart 

Long  since  to  every  man  that  mingles  here; 

But    grieve    to    find    it     trusted     with    such 

tempers, 

That  can't  forgive  my  froward  age  its  weak- 
ness. 
Beda.     Eliot,    thou    once    hadst    virtue;    I 

have    seen 
Thy     stubborn     temper    bend    with     godlike 

goodness, 
Not     half     thus    courted:     'tis    thy    nation's 

glory, 

To  hug  the  foe  that  offers  brave  alliance. 
Once  more  embrace,  my  friends — we'll  all 

embrace — 

United  thus,  we  are   the   mighty   engine 
Must     twist     this     rooted    empire    from     its 

basis ! 
Totters  it   not   already? 

Eliot.  Would  it  were  tumbling! 

Beda.     Nay,   it   shall  down:   this  night  we 
seal   its   ruin. 

Enter  PIERRE. 

0  Pierre!    thou    art   welcome! 

Come   to   my   breast,   for   by    its   hopes    thou 

look'st 

Lovelily  dreadful,  and  the  fate  of  Venice 
Seems   on   thy    sword   already.     O    my   Mars ! 
The  poets  that  first  feigned  a  god  of  war 
Sure   prophesied   of  thee. 

Pierr.  Friends!  was  not  Brutus, 

(I   mean   that  Brutus  who  in  open   senate 
Stabbed    the    first    Caesar    that    usurped    the 

world) 
A    gallant   man  ? 

Ren.  Yes,    and    Catiline    too; 

Though    story   wrong   his    fame;    for   he   con- 
spired 

To  prop  the  reeling  glory  of  his  country: 
His  cause  was  good. 

Beda.  And  ours  as  much  above  it, 

As,  Renault,  thou  art  superior  to  Cethegus, 
Or  Pierre  to  Cassius. 

Pierr.  Then  to  what  we  aim  at, 

When    do    we    start?    or    must    we    talk    for 
ever? 

Beda.     No,    Pierre,    the    deed's    near   birth: 

fate    seems    to    have    set 
The  business   up,   and    given   it   to   our  care; 

1  hope  there's  not  a  heart  nor  hand  amongst 

us 
But   is    firm    and   ready. 

All.  All!     We'll    die   with    Bedamar. 

Beda.  O   men, 

Matchless,  as  will  your  glory  be  hereafter. 
The  game  is  for  a  matchless  prize,  if  won; 
If  lost,  disgraceful  ruin. 

Ren.  What    can   lose    it? 

The  public  stock's  a  beggar;  one  Venetian 
Trusts  not  another.  Look  into  their  stores 
Of  general  safety;  empty  magazines, 


A  tattered  fleet,   a  murmuring  unpaid  army, 
Bankrupt    nobility,    a    harassed    commonalty, 
A  factious,  giddy,  and  divided  Senate, 
Is  all  the  strength  of  Venice.     Let's  destroy 

Let's  fill  their  magazines  with  arms  to  awe 
them, 

Man    out   their    fleet,    and   make    their    trade 
maintain    it; 

Let    loose    the    murmuring    army    on    their 
masters, 

To   pay    themselves   with   plunder;    lop    their 
nobles 

To   the  base  roots,  whence  most  of  'em  first 
sprung; 

Enslave  the  rout,  whom  smarting  will  make 
humble; 

Turn  out  their   droning  Senate,  and  possess 

That    seat    of   empire    which    our    souls    were 

framed  for. 

Pierr.     Ten    thousand    men    are    armed    at 
ycur  nod, 

Commanded   all   by   leaders   fit   to   guide 

A   battle   for   the  freedom  of   the   world; 

This    wretched    state    has    starved    them    in 
its   service, 

And   by  your  bounty   quickened,   they're  re- 
solved 

To  serve  your  glory,  and  revenge  their  own! 

They've   all    their   different   quarters   in    this 
city, 

Watch    for    the    alarm,    and    grumble   'tis    so 

tardy. 

Beda.     I    doubt    not,    friend,    but    thy    un- 
wearied  diligence 

Has    still    kept    waking,    and    it    shall    have 
ease. 

After  this  night  it  is  resolved  we  meet 

No  more,   till   Venice   own  us  for   her  lords. 
Pierr.     How    lovelily    the    Adriatic    whore, 

Dressed    in    her    flames,    will    shine!    devour- 
ing flames ! 

Such   as    shall   burn  her   to   the  watery  bot- 
tom 

And    hiss    in    her    foundation. 

Beda.  Now  if  any 

Amongst   us   that   owns    this   glorious   cause, 

Have   friends  or  interest,  he'd  wish   to  save, 

Let  it   be   told;    the   general   doom   is   sealed; 

But    I'd   forego    the    hopes    of   a   world's   em- 
pire, 

Rather  than  wound  the  bowels  of  my  friend. 
Pierr.     I     must     confess,     you    there     have 
touched    my    weakness, 

I  have  a  friend;  hear  it,  such  a  friend! 

My    heart    was    ne'er    shut    to   him:    nay,    I'll 
tell  you, 

He  knows   the  very  business  of  this  hour; 

But    he   rejoices   in   the   cause,    and   loves   it; 

We've   changed    a    vow    to   live    and   die    to- 
gether, 

And   he's   at  hand   to   ratify   it   here. 

Ren.  How!  all   betrayed? 

Pierr.     No — I've   dealt   nobly  with  you; 


91 


ACT  II,  Sc.  III. 


VENICE  PRESERVED 


I've  brought   my   all   into  the  public  stock; 
I    had    but    one    friend,    and    him    I'll    share 

amongst    you ! 

Receive   and    cherish   him:    or   if,    when    seen 
And    searched,    you    find    him    worthless,    as 

my    tongue 

Has  lodged  this  secret  in  his  faithful  breast, 
To  ease  your  fears  I  wear  a  dagger  here 
Shall  rip  it  out  again,  and  give  you  rest. 
Come    forth,    thou    only    good    I    e'er    could 

boast  of. 

Enter  JAFFEIR  with  a  dagger. 

Beila.     His    presence    bears    the    show    of 

manly  virtue. 
/,!•'.     I   know  you'll  wonder  all,  that   thus 

uncalled, 

I  dare  approach  this  place  of  fatal  counsels; 
But    I'm    amongst    you,    and    by    Heaven    it 

glads  me, 

To    see    so    many    virtues    thus    united, 
To    restore   justice  and    dethrone   oppression. 
Command   this   sword,   if   you   would   have   it 

quiet, 

Into  this  breast;  but  if  you   think  it  worthy 
To    cut    the    throats    of    reverend    rogues    in 

robes, 

Send    me    into    the    curst    assembled    Senate; 
It  shrinks  not,  though  I  meet  a  father  there. 
Would  you  behold  this  city  flaming?     Here's 
A   hand   shall   bear   a  lighted   torch    at   noon 
To  the  arsenal,  and  set  its  gates  on  fire. 
Ren.     You   talk   this   well,   sir. 
Jaff.  Nay— by   Heaven  I'll  do  this. 

Come,     come,    I     read    distrust    in    all    your 

faces; 

You   fear   me    a   villain,    and    indeed   it's    odd 
To  hear  a  stranger  talk   thus  at   first  meet- 
ing, 

Of  matters,  that  have  been  so  well   debated; 
But    I    come   ripe    with   wrongs   as   you   with 

counsels, 

I  hate  this  Senate,  am  a  foe  to  Venice; 
A  friend  to  none,  but  men  resolved  like  me, 
To  push  on   mischief;  oh,   did  you  but  know 

me, 
I  need  not  talk  thus! 

Beila.  Pierre!  I  must  embrace  him, 

My    heart   beats   to    this    man    as   if   it   knew 

him. 

Ren.     I  never  loved  these  buggers. 
Jaff.  Still    I    see 

The    cause    delights    me    not.      Your    friends 

survey    me, 

As  I  were  dangerous — but   I   come  armed 
Against    all    doubt,    and    to    your    trust    will 

give 
A  pledge,  worth  more  than  all  the  world  can 

pay    for. 

My  Belvidera!    Ho!    My  Belvidera! 
Bed  a.     What  wonder  next? 
Jaff.  Let  me  entreat  you, 

As     I     have     henceforth     hopes     to     call     ye 

friends, 


That  all   but   the  ambassador,    [and]    this 
Grave  guide  of  councils,  with  my  friend  that 

owns    me, 

Withdraw     a     while     to     spare     a     woman's 
blushes. 
[Exeunt      all      but      BEDAMAR,      RENAULT, 

JAFFEIR,    PIERRE. 
Beda.     Pierre,   whither   will    this   ceremony 

lead   us? 
Jaff.     My    Belvidera!     Belvidera! 

Enter   BELVIDERA. 

Belv.     Who    calls     so     loud     at     this    late 

peaceful   hour?     Who? 
That    voice    was    wont    to    come    in    gentler 

whispers, 

And  fill  my  ears  with  the  soft  breath  of  love: 
Thou    hourly   image   of   my    thoughts,    where 

art    thou? 

Jaff.     Indeed  'tis  late. 

Belv.  Oh!  I  have  slept  and  dreamt, 

And   dreamt  again.     Where   hast    thou  been, 

thou    loiterer? 
Though  my  eyes  closed,  my  arms  have  still 

been   opened; 
Stretched     every    way    betwixt     my    broken 

slumbers, 
To   search   if   thou   wert   come   to   crown   my 

rest; 

There's  no  repose  without  thee.    Oh,  the  day 
Too    soon    will    break,    and    wake    us    to    our 

sorrow; 
Come,  come  to  bed,   and  bid  thy  cares  good 

night. 
Jaff.     O    Belvidera!    we    must    change    the 

scene 
In    which     the    past     delights    of    life    were 

tasted: 

The  poor  sleep  little,  we  must  learn  to  watch 
Our     labors     late,     and     early     every     morn- 
ing, 
Midst   winter  frosts,    thin   clad   and  fed   with 

sparing, 

Rise  to  our  toils,  and  drudge  away  the  day. 
Belv.     Alas !  where  am  I  ?  whither  is't  you 

lead  me? 

Methinks   I  read  distraction  in  your  face, 
Something  less  gentle  than  the  fate  you  tell 

me: 
You  shake  and  tremble  too!  your  blood  runs 

cold! 
Heavens  guard  my  love,  and  bless  his  heart 

with  patience ! 
Jaff.     That    I    have    patience,    let    our    fate 

bear  witness, 

Who  has  ordained  it  so,  that  thou  and  I, 
(Thou  the  divinest  good  man  e'er  possessed, 
And    I    the   wretched'st   of   the    race   of  man) 
This  very  hour,  without  one  tear,  must  part. 
Beh\     Part!    must    we    part?      Oh!    am    I 

then   forsaken? 

Will    my    love    cast    me    off?    have   my    mis- 
fortunes 


92 


VENICE  PRESERVED 


ACT  III,  So.  I. 


Offended  him  so  highly,  that  he'll  leave  me? 

Why    drag-    you    from   me;    whither    are    you 
going-  ? 

My  dear!  my  life!  my  love! 

Jaff.  Oh.  friends! 

Belv.     Speak  to  me. 

Jaff.  Take  her  from  my  heart; 

She'll  gain   such   hold  else,   I   shall  ne'er   get 
loose. 

I   charge   thee   take   her,   but  with    tenderest 
care 

Relieve    her    troubles    and    assauge    her    sor- 
rows. 
Ren.     Rise,         madam!         and         command 

amongst    your    servants ! 
Jaff.     To    you,    sirs,    and    your    honors,    I 
bequeath   her, 

And  with  her  this,  when  I  prove  unworthy — 
[Gives  a  dagger. 

You    know    the   rest — then    strike    it    to    her 
heart; 

And    tell    her,    he,    who    three    whole    happy 
years 

Lay   in   her   arms,   and   each    kind   night   re- 
peated 

The  passionate  vows  of  still-increasing  love, 

Sent  that  reward  for  all  her  truth  and  suf- 
ferings. 

/;,-/:'.     Nay,  take  my  life,  since  he  has  sold 
it  cheaply; 

Or    send    me    to    some    distant    clime    your 
slave, 

But   let   it  be   far   off,   lest   my   complainings 

Should  reach  his  guilty  ears,   and   shake   his 

peace. 

Jaff.     No,     Belvidera,     I've    contrived     thy 
honor. 

Trust  to  my  faith,  and  be  but  fortune  kind 

To  me,  as  I'll  preserve  that  faith  unbroken, 

When    next    we    meet,    I'll    lift    thee    to    a 
height, 

Shall    gather    all    the     gazing    world    about 
thee, 

To   wonder  what  strange   virtue  placed  thee 
there. 

But  if  we  ne'er  meet  more 

Belv.  O  thou  unkind  one, 

Never  meet  more?  have  I  deserved  this  from 
you? 

Look   on   me,   tell   me,    speak,    t'lou   dear  de- 
ceiver, 

Why  am  I  separated  from  thy  love? 

If  I  am  false,  accuse  me;  but  if  true, 

Don't,   prithee,   don't   in   poverty   forsake  me, 

But    pity    the    sad    heart,    that's    torn    with 
parting. 

Yet   hear   me!  yet   recall   me 

[Exeunt    RENAULT,    BEDAMAR,    and    BELVI- 
DERA. 
Jaff.  O  my  eyes! 

Look    not    that    way,    but    turn    yourselves 
awhile 

Into   my  heart,  and  be  weaned   all   together. 

My  friend,  where  art  thou? 


Pierr.  Here,    my    honor's    brother. 

Jaff.     Is   Belvidera   gone? 
Pierr.  Renault    has    led    her 

Back     to     her     own     apartment;     but,     by 

Heaven! 
Thou  must  not  see  her  more  till  our  work's 

over. 
Jaff.     No. 

Pierr.         Not  for  your  life. 
Jaff.  O   Pierre,   wert  thou  but  she, 

How  I   could  pull   thee  down  into  my   heart, 
Gaze    on    thee    till    my    eye-strings    cracked 

with  love, 

Till  all  my  sinews  with  its  fire  extended, 
Fixed  me   upon   the   rack   of   ardent   longing; 
Then    swelling,    sighing,    raging    to   be   blest, 
Come  like  a  panting  turtle  to  thy  breast, 
On   thy  soft   bosom,   hovering,   bill  and  play, 
Confess  the  cause  why  last  I  fled  away; 
Own    'twas   a   fault,    but    swear   to   give    it 

o'er 
And  never  follow  false  ambition  more. 

[Exeunt  ambo. 


ACT  III 

SCENE    I 
Enter  AQUILINA   and  her  Maid. 

A  quit.  Tell  him  I  am  gone  to  bed:  tell  him 
I  am  not  at  home;  tell  him  I've  better  com- 
pany with  me,  or  any  thing;  tell  him,  in 
short,  I  will  not  see  him,  the  eternal,  trouble- 
some, vexatious  fool:  he's  worse  company 

than  an  •  ignorant  physician I'll  not  be 

disturbed  at  these  unseasonable  hours. 

Maid.  But  madam!  He's  here  already, 
just  entered  the  doors. 

Aquil.  Turn  him  out  again,  you  unneces- 
sary, useless,  giddy-brained  ass!  If  he  will 
not  be  gone,  set  the  house  a-fire  and  burn 
us  both;  I  had  rather  meet  a  toad  in  my  dish 
than  that  old  hideous  animal  in  my  chamber 
to-night. 

Enter  ANTONIO. 

Anto.  Nacky,  Nacky,  Nacky — how  dost  do, 
Nacky?  Hurry  durry.  I  am  come,  little 
Nacky;  past  eleven  o'clock,  a  late  hour; 
time  in  all  conscience  to  go  to  bed,  Nacky — 
Nacky,  did  I  say?  Ay  Nacky;  Aquilina,  lina, 
lina,  quilina,  quilina,  quilina,  Aquilina, 
Naquilina,  Naquilina,  Acky,  Acky,  Nacky, 
Nacky,  Queen  Nacky — come  let's  to  bed— you 
fubbs,  you  pugg  you — you  little  puss — purree 
tuzzey — I  am  a  senator. 

Aquil.     You  are  a  fool,  I  am  sure. 

Anto.  May  be  so  too,  sweetheart.  Never 
the  worse  senator  for  all  that.  Come  Nacky, 
Nacky,  let's  have  a  game  at  rump,  Nacky. 

Aquil.  You  would  do  well,  signior,  to  be 
troublesome  here  no  longer,  but  leave  me 
to  myself;  be  sober  and  go  home,  sir. 


93 


ACT  III,  Sc.  I. 


VENICE  PRESERVED 


Anto.     Home,  Madonna! 

Aquil.     Ay,  home,  sir.    Who  am  I? 

Anto.  Madonna,  as  I  take  it,  you  are  my 
— you  are — thou  art  my  little  Nicky  Nacky — 
that's  all! 

Aquil.  I  find  you  are  resolved  to  be 
troublesome,  and  so  to  make  short  of  the 
matter  in  few  words,  I  hate  you,  detest  you, 
loathe  you,  I  am  weary  of  you,  sick  of  you — 
hang  you,  you  are  an  old,  silly,  impertinent, 
impotent,  solicitous,  coxcomb,  crazy  in  your 
head,  and  lazy  in  your  body,  love  to  be 
meddling  with  everything,  and  if  you  had  not 
money,  you  are  good  for  nothing. 

Anto.  "Good  for  nothing!"  Hurry  durry, 
I'll  try  that  presently.  Sixty-one  years  old, 
and  good  for  nothing:  that's  brave.  [To  the 
Maid.]  Come  come  come,  Mistress  Fiddle- 
faddle,  turn  you  out  for  a  season;  go  turn 
out,  I  say,  it  is  our  will  and  pleasure  to  be 
private  some  moments — out,  out  when  you 
are  bid  to — [Puts  her  out  and  locks  the  door.] 
"  Good  for  nothing,"  you  say. 

Aquil.     Why,  what  are  you  good  for? 

Anto.  In  the  first  place,  madam,  I  am  old, 
and  consequently  very  wise,  very  wise, 
Madonna,  d'ye  mark  that?  in  the  second 
place,  take  notice,  if  you  please,  that  I  am  a 
senator,  and  when  I  think  fit  can  make 
speeches,  Madonna.  Hurry  durry,  I  can 
make  a  speech  in  the  Senate-house  now  and 
then— would  make  your  hair  stand  on  end, 
Madonna. 

Aquil.  What  care  I  for  your  speeches  in 
the  Senate-house:  if  you  would  be  silent 
here,  I  should  thank  you. 

Anto.  Why,  I  can  make  speeches  to  thee 
too,  my  lovely  Madonna;  for  example — my 
cruel  fair  one,  [takes  out  a  purse  of  gold  and 
at  every  pause  shakes  it],  since  it  is  my  fate, 
that  you  should  with  your  servant  angry 
prove;  tho*  late  at  night — I  hope  'tis  not  too 
late  with  this  to  gain  reception  for  my  love — 
there's  for  thee,  my  little  Nicky  Nacky— 
take  it,  here  take  it— I  say  take  it,  or  I'll 
fling  it  at  your  head — how  now,  rebel! 

Aquil.  Truly,  my  illustrious  Senator,  I 
must  confess  your  honor  is  at  present  most 
profoundly  eloquent  indeed. 

Anto.  Very  well;  come,  now  let's  sit 
down  and  think  upon't  a  little — come  sit  I 
say — sit  down  by  me  a  little,  my  Nicky 
Nacky,  ha! — [Sits  down.]  Hurry  durry— 
"  good  for  nothing !  " 

Aquil.  No,  sir,  if  you  please,  I  can  know 
my  distance  and  stand. 

Anto.  Stand:'  how?  Nacky  up  and  I 
down!  Nay,  then,  let  me  exclaim  with  the 
poet, 

Show  me  a  case  more  pitiful  who  can, 
A  standing  woman,  and  a  falling  man. 
Hurry  durry — not  sit  down — see  this,  ye  gods 
— You  won't  sit  down? 

Aquil.     No,  sir. 


Anto.  Then  look  you  now,  suppose  me  a 
bull,  a  Basan-bull,  the  bull  of  bulls,  or  any 
bull.  Thus  up  I  get  and  with  my  brows  thus 
bent— I  broo,  I  say  I  broo,  I  broo,  I  broo. 

You  won't  sit  down,  will  you? — I  broo 

[Bellows  like  a  bull,  and  drives  her  about. 

Aquil.  Well,  sir,  I  must  endure  this.  [She 
sits  down.]  Now  your  honor  has  been  a  bull, 
pray  what  beast  will  your  worship  please  to 
be  next? 

Anto.  Now  I'll  be  a  senator  again,  and 
thy  lover,  little  Nicky  Nacky!  [He  sits  by 
her.]  Ah  toad,  toad,  toad,  toad!  spit  in  my 
face  a  little,  Nacky — spit  in  my  face  prithee, 
spit  in  my  face,  never  so  little:  spit  but  a 
little  bit — spit,  spit,  spit,  spit,  when  you  are 
bid,  I  say;  do  prithee  spit — now,  now,  now, 
spit:  what,  you  won't  spit,  will  you?  Then 
I'll  be  a  dog. 

Aquil.     A  dog,  my  lord? 

Anto.  Ay,  a  dog— and  I'll  give  thee  this 
t'other  purse  to  let  me  be  a  dog — and  to 
use  me  like  a  dog  a  little.  Hurry  durry— I 
will— here  'tis.  [Gives  the  purse. 

Aquil.  Well,  with  all  my  heart.  But  let 
me  beseech  your  dogship  to  play  your  tricks 
over  as  fast  as  you  can,  that  you  may  come 
to  stinking  the  sooner,  and  be  turned  out  of 
doors  as  you  deserve. 

Anto.  Ay,  ay— no  matter  for  that—that— 
[he  gets  under  the  table'] — shan't  move  me 

Now,   bow  wow  wow,   bow   wow    .    .   . 

[Barks  like  a  dog. 

Aquil.  Hold,  hold,  hold,  sir,  I  beseech  you: 
what  is't  you  do?  If  curs  bite,  they  must 
be  kicked,  sir.  Do  you  see,  kicked  thus? 

Anto.  Ay,  with  all  my  heart:  do  kick,  kick 
on,  now  I  am  under  the  table,  kick  again — 
kick  harder — harder  yet,  bow  wow  wow,  wow, 
bow — 'od,  I'll  have  a  snap  at  thy  shins- 
bow  wow  wow,  wow,  bow  —  'od,  she  kicks 
bravely. 

Aquil.  Nay,  then  I'll  go  another  way  to 
work  with  you;  and  I  think  here's  an  instru- 
ment fit  for  the  purpose.  [Fetches  a  whip 
and  bell.]  What,  bite  your  mistress,  sirrah! 
out,  out  of  doors,  you  dog,  to  kennel  and  be 
hanged — bite  your  mistress  by  the  legs,  you 
rogue [She  whips  him. 

Anto.  Nay,  prithee,  Nacky,  now  thou  art 
too  loving:  Hurry  durry,  'od  I'll  be  a  dog 
no  longer. 

Aquil.  Nay,  none  of  your  fawning  and 
grinning:  but  be  gone,  or  here's  the  disci- 
pline: what,  bite  your  mistress  by  the  legs, 
you  mongrel?  out  of  doors— hout  bout,  to 
kennel,  sirrah!  go. 

.•tn  to.  This  is  very  barbarous  usage, 
Nacky,  very  barbarous:  look  you,  I  will  not 
go — I  will  not  stir  from  the  door,  that  I  re- 
solve— hurry  durry,  what,  shut  me  out? 

[She  whips  him  out. 

Aquil.  Ay,  and  if  you  come  here  any  more 
to-night  I'll  have  my  footmen  lug  you,  you 


VENICE  PRESERVED 


ACT  III,  Sc.  II. 


cur:    what,   bite   your   poor   mistress   Nacky, 
sirrah ! 

Enter  Maid. 

Maid.     Heavens,  madam!    What's  the  mat- 
ter? [He  howls  at  the  door  like  a  dog. 
A  quit.     Call  my   footmen  hither  presently. 

Enter  two  Footmen. 

Maid.  They  are  here  already,  madam,  the 
house  is  all  alarmed  with  a  strange  noise,  that 
nobody  knows  what  to  make  of. 

Aqiiil.  Go  all  of  you  and  turn  that  trou- 
blesome beast  in  the  next  room  out  of  my 
house — if  I  ever  see  him  within  these  wails 
again,  without  my  leave  for  his  admittance, 
you  sneaking  rogues,  I'll  have  you  poisoned 
all,  poisoned  like  rats;  every  corner  of  the 
house  shall  stink  of  one  of  you;  go,  and  learn 
hereafter  to  know  my  pleasure.  So  now  for 
my  Pierre: 

Thus  when  godlike  lover  was  displeased, 

We  sacrifice  our  fool  and  he's  appeased. 

[Exeunt. 

SCENE   II 
Enter   BELVIDERA. 

Bck'.     I'm  sacrificed!    I  am  sold!  betrayed 

to    shame ! 

Inevitable  ruin  has  inclosed  me! 
No  sooner  was  I  to  my  bed  repaired 
To   weigh,   and   (weeping)   ponder  my    condi- 
tion, 
But    the    old    hoary    wretch,    to    whose    false 

care 

My  peace  and  honor  was  entrusted,  came 
(Like    Tarquin)    ghastly    with    infernal    lust. 

0  thou,  Roman  Lucrece!    Thou  couldst  find 

friends 
To    vindicate   thy   wrong; 

1  never  had  but  one,  and  he's  proved  false; 
He    that    should    guard    my    virtue,    has    be- 
trayed it; 

Left   me!  undone   me!     O   that    I   could  hate 

him! 
Where     shall     I     go?     O     whither,     whither 

wander  ? 

Enter  JAFFEIR. 

Jaff.  Can  Belvidera  want  a  resting  place, 
When  these  poor  arms  are  open  to  receive 

her? 

Oh,  'tis  in  vain  to  struggle  with  desires 
Strong   as   my   love   to   thee;   for   every   mo- 
ment 
I'm    from    thy    sight,    the    heart    within    my 

bosom 

Moans  like  a  tender  infant  in  its  cradle 
Whose  nurse  has  left  it;  come,  and  with  the 

songs 

Of  gentle  love  persuade  it   to  its  peace. 
Belv.     I    fear    the    stubborn    wanderer   will 
not  own   me, 


'Tis  grown  a  rebel  to  be  ruled  no  longer, 

Scorns  the  indulgent  bosom  that  first  lulled 
it, 

And  like  a  disobedient  child  disdains 

The  soft  authority  of   Belvidera. 

Jaff.     There  was  a  time 

Belv.  Yes,  yes,  there  was  a  time 

When   Belvidera's   tears,  her  cries,   and  sor- 
rows, 

Were   not  despised;   when   if  she  chanced   to 
sigh, 

Or   look    but    sad — there   was    indeed    a    time 

When    Jaffeir   would   have    ta'en    her    in    his 
arms, 

Eased    her    declining    head    upon    his    breast, 

And  never  left   her   till   he  found  the   cause. 

But  let  her  now  weep   seas, 

Cry,    till    she   rend    the    earth;    sigh    till    she 
burst 

Her  heart  asunder;  still  he  bears  it  all; 

Deaf    as    the    wind,    and    as    the    rocks    un- 
shaken. 

Jaff.     Have   I   been   deaf?  am   I   that  rock 
unmoved, 

Against    whose    root    tears    beat    and    sighs 
are  sent? 

In  vain  have  I  beheld  thy  sorrows  calmly! 

Witness   against   me,   Heavens,    have   I    done 
this? 

Then  bear  me  in  a  whirlwind  back  again, 

And    let   that   angry   dear   one    ne'er   forgive 
me! 

0  thou  too  rashly  censurest  of  my  love! 
Couldst    thou    but    think    how    I    have    spent 

this   night, 

Dark  and  alone,  no  pillow  to  my  head, 
Rest  in  my  eyes,  nor  quiet  in  my  heart, 
Thou     wouldst     not,     Belvidera,     sure     thou 

wouldst  not 

Talk    to   me   thus,    but   like   a   pitying    angel, 
Spreading    thy    wings,    come    settle    on    my 

breast, 
And  hatch   warm   comfort  there,   ere  sorrows 

freeze  it. 
Belv.     Why,   then,   poor  mourner,  in  what 

baleful   corner 
Hast  thou  been  talking  with   that  witch   the 

Night? 
On  what  cold  stone  hast  thou  been  stretched 

along, 
Gathering    the    grumbling    winds    about    thy 

head, 
To     mix     with     theirs     the     accents     of     thy 

woes! 
Oh,   now   I   find   the   cause   my  love   forsakes 

me! 

1  am  no  longer  fit  to  bear  a  share 

In  his  concernments:  my  weak  female  virtue 
Must  not  be   trusted;   'tis   too  frail  and  ten- 
der. 
Jaff.     O   Portia!   Portia!   what   a   soul    was 

thine ! 

/),'/:-.     That     Portia     was     a    woman,     and 
when   Brutus, 


95 


ACT  III,  Sc.  II. 


VENICE  PRESERVED 


Big   with    the    fate   of   Rome    (Heaven    guard 

thy  safety!) 

Concealed  from   her   the   labors  of   his   mind, 
She  let  him   see  her  blood  was  great  as  his, 
Flowed  from  a  spring  as  noble,   and   a   heart 
Fit   to   partake   his   troubles,  as  his  love: 
Fetch,   fetch   that  dagger  back,   the   dreadful 

dower 
Thou  gavest   last  night  in  parting  with  me; 

strike   it 
Here   to   my   heart;   and  as    the    blood    flows 

from    it, 

Judge  if  it  run  not  pure  as  Cato's  daughter's. 
Jaff.     Thou  art  too  good,  and  I  indeed  un- 
worthy, 

Unworthy    so    much    virtue:    teach    me    how 

I  may  deserve  such  matchless  love  as  thine, 

And   see   with   what   attention  I'll   obey  thee. 

Bel-'.     Do   not    despise    me:    that's    the    all 

I  ask. 

Jaff.     Despise  thee!    Hear  me 

Beh'.  Oh,    thy    charming    tongue 

Is   but   too   well    acquainted    with    my    weak- 
ness, 
Knows,    let    it   name    but    love,    my    melting 

heart 
Dissolves  within  my  breast;   till  with  closed 

eyes 

I  reel  into  thy  arms,  and  all's  forgotten. 
Jaff.     What    shall    I    do? 

Beh'.  Tell   me!  be  just,   and   tell   me 

Why  dwells  that  busy  cloud  upon  thy  face? 
Why  am  I  made  a  stranger?  why  that  sigh, 
And  I  not  know  the  cause?  Why,  when  the 

world 

Is  wrapt  in  rest,  why  chooses  then  my  love 
To  wander  up  and  down  in  horrid  darkness, 
Loathing  his  bed,  and  these  desiring  arms? 
Why  are  these  eyes  bloodshot  with  tedious 

watching  ? 
Why    starts    he    now?    and    looks    as    if    he 

wished 
His    fate   were   finished?     Tell   me,    ease   my 

fears; 
Lest,    when   we   next   time   meet,   I    want    the 

power 

To  search  into  the  sickness  of  thy  mind, 
But  talk  as  wildly  then  as  thou  look'st  now. 
Jaff.     O    Belvidera! 
Beh:     Why   was   I   last   night   delivered   to 

a   villain? 

Jaff.     Ha,    a   villain! 
Beh<.     Yes!  to  a  villain!     Why  at  such  an 

hour 

Meets  that  assembly  all  made  up  of  wretches 
That  look  as  hell  had  drawn  'em  into 

league  ? 

Why,   I   in   this  hand,  and  in  that   a  dagger, 
Was    I    delivered    with    such    dreadful    cere- 
monies ? 

"  To    you,    sirs,    and    to    your    honor    I    be- 
queath her, 

And    with    her    this:    whene'er    I    prove    un- 
worthy— 


You    know    the    rest, — then    strike    it    to    her 
heart  ?  " 

Oh !    why's    that     rest     concealed    from    me  ? 
Must  I 

Be  made  the  hostage  of  a  hellish   trust? 

For  such  I  know  I  am;  that's  all  my  value! 

But  by  the  love  and   loyalty   I  owe   thee, 

I'll    free    thee    from    the    bondage    of    these 
slaves; 

Straight   to   the   Senate,   tell   'em  all   I   know, 

All    that    I    think,    all    that   my    fears    inform 

me! 

Jaff.     Is   this    the   Roman   virtue!   this   the 
blood 

That    boasts   its    purity    with   Cato's    daugh- 
ter's! 

Would  she  have  e'er  betrayed  her  Brutus? 
Beh:  No: 

For  Brutus  trusted  her:  wert  thou  so  kind, 

What   would    not    Belvidera   suffer   for    thee? 
Jaff.     I    shall    undo    myself,    and    tell    thee 

all. 

Beh:     Look     not     upon     me,     as     I     am     a 
woman, 

But    as    a    bone,    thy    wife,    thy    friend,    who 
long 

Has    had   admission   to   thy   heart,   and   there 

Studied    the    virtues    of    thy    gallant    nature; 

Thy   constancy,    thy   courage  and   thy    truth, 

Have    been    my    daily    lesson:    I    have    learnt 
them, 

Am  bold  as  thou,  can  suffer  or  despise 

The   worst   of  fates   for   thee,    and   with   thee 

share   them. 

Jaff.     Oh   you   divinest   powers!  look  down 
and  hear 

My  prayers!  instruct  me  to  reward  this  vir- 
tue! 

Yet   think   a   little   ere    thou   tempt    me    fur- 
ther: 

Think   I   have  a   tale   to   tell,   will   shake    thy 
nature, 

Melt  all   this  boasted  constancy  thou   talk'st 
of 

Into    vile    tears    and    despicable    sorrows: 

Then    if   thou    shouldst   betray   me! 

Beh.  Shall  I  swear? 

Jaff.     No:   do  not  swear:  I   would  not  vio- 
late 

Thy  tender  nature  with  so  rude  a  bond: 

But  as  thou  hopest  to  see  me  live  my  days, 

And    love    thee    long,    lock    this    within    thy 
breast; 

I've  bound  myself  by  all  the  strictest  sacra- 
ments 

Divine    and    human 


Beh. 
Jaff. 
Beh. 
Jaff. 
ate 

Shall  bleed,   my   Belvidera:   he   amongst   us 
That     spares     his     father,     brother,     or     his, 
friend, 


Speak! 

To   kill   thy    father 

My   father! 
Nay,   the  throats   of   the   whole  Sen- 


96 


VENICE  PRESERVED 


ACT  III,  So.  II. 


Is    damned.     How    rich    and    beauteous    will 

the  face 
Of   ruin   look,   when    these   wide   streets   run 

blood; 

I  and  the  glorious  partners  of  my  fortune 
Shouting,  and  striding  o'er  the  prostrate 

dead, 
Still    to   new   waste;   whilst   thou,    far   off  in 

safety 

Smiling,    shalt   see    the   wonders   of  our  dar- 
ing; 
And  when  night  conies,  with  praise  and  love 

receive  me. 
Belv.     Oh ! 
Jaff.     Have    a   care,    and    shrink    not    even 

in   thought ! 

For  if  thou  dost 

Belv.  I  know  it,   thou  wilt  kill  me. 

Do,    strike   thy    sword    into    this   bosom:    lay 

me 
Dead   on    the    earth,    and   then    thou    wilt   be 

safe: 

Murder  my  father!  though   his   cruel  nature 
Has  persecuted  me   to  my  undoing, 
Driven    me    to    basest    wants,    can    I    behold 

him, 
With   smiles  of   vengeance,   butchered   in   his 

age? 

The  sacred   fountain   of  my  life  destroyed? 
And    canst    thou    shed    the    blood    that    gave 

me  being? 

Nay,  be  a  traitor  too,  and  sell  thy  country  ? 
Can  thy  great  heart  descend  so  vilely  low, 
Mix  with  hired  slaves,  bravos,  and  common 

slabbers, 

Nose-slitters,   alley-lurking  villains?   join 
With    such    a     crew    and     take    a    ruffian's 

wages 
To    cut    the    throats    of    wretches    as    they 

sleep  ? 
Jaff.     Thou    wrong'st    me,    Belvidera!    I've 

engaged 

With  men  of  souls,  fit  to  reform  the  ills 
Of  all  mankind:  there's  not  a  heart  amongst 

them, 

But  's  stout  as  death,  yet  honest  as  the   na- 
ture 
Of  man  first  made,   ere  fraud  and  vice  were 

fashions. 
Belv.     What's    he,    to    whose    curst    hands 

last  night  thou  gav'st  me? 
Was    that    well    done?      Oh!    I    could    tell    a 

story 

Would    rouse   thy   lion-heart   out   of   its    den, 
And  make  it  rage  with  terrifying  fury. 
Jaff.     Speak  on,    I   charge   thee! 
Belv.  O   my  love!   if   e'er 

Thy  Belvidera's  peace  deserved  thy  care, 
Remove  me  from   this  place:  last  night,  last 

night 

Jaff.     Distract    me    not,    but    give    me    all 

the   truth. 
Belv.     No    sooner    wert    thou    gone,    and    I 

alone, 


Left    in    the   power   of   that   old   son    of   mis- 
chief; 

No  sooner  was   I  lain  on  my  sad  bed, 
But   that  vile  wretch  approached   me,   loose, 

unbuttoned, 

Ready  for  violation:  then  my  heart 
Throbbed  with  its  fears:  oh,  how  I  wept  and 

sighed 
And    shrunk    and    trembled;    wished    in    vain 

for   him 
That    should    protect   me.     Thou,    alas !   wert 

gone! 
Jaff.     Patience,   sweet  Heaven,    till   I   make 

vengeance  sure! 
Belv.     He    drew   the    hideous    dagger   forth 

thou    gav'st    him, 

And   with    upbraiding    smiles,   he   said,    "  Be- 
hold  it; 

This  is  the  pledge  of  a  false  husband's  love:  " 
And    in    my    arms    then    pressed,    and    would 

have    clasped    me; 

But  with  my  cries  I  scared  his  coward  heart, 
Till     he    withdrew,     and    muttered    vows    to 

hell. 
These   are  thy   friends !   with   these   thy   life, 

thy  honor, 
Thy    love,    all's    staked,    and    all    will    go    to 

ruin. 
Jii  ;'.     No    more:    I    charge    thee    keep    this 

secret  close; 

Clear  up  thy  sorrows,  look  as  if  thy  wrongs 
Were  all  forgot,  and  treat  him  like  a  friend, 
As  no  complaint  were  made.     No  more;   re- 
tire, 

Retire,  my  life,  and  doubt  not  of  my  honor; 

I'll    heal    its   failings,    and  deserve    thy    love. 

Belv.     Oh,   should  I  part  with   thee,   I   fear 

thou   wilt 

In  anger  leave  me,  and  return  no  more. 
Jaff.     Return   no   more!     I   would   not   live 
.    without    thee 

Another  night,  to  purchase  the  creation. 
Belv.     When  shall  we  meet  again? 
Jaff.  Anon   at    twelve! 

I'll   steal  myself  to   thy   expecting  arms, 
Come    like   a    travelled    dove   and   bring   thee 

peace. 

Belv.'   Indeed! 

Jaff.  By    all    our    loves! 

Belv.  'Tis  hard  to  part: 

But  sure  no  falsehood  ever  looked  so  fairly. 
Farewell — remember   twelve. 

[Exit   BELVIDERA. 

Jaff.  Let  Heaven   forget  me 

When   I   remember   not   thy    truth,    thy    love. 
How     curst     is     my     condition !     tossed     and 

justled, 

From   every   corner;    fortune's   common   fool, 
The   jest   of   rogues,   an   instrumental   ass 
For   villains   to   lay  loads   of   shame   upon, 
And    drive    about    just    for    their    ease    and 
scorn. 

Enter  PIERRE. 
Pierr.     Jaff  eir ! 


97 


ACT  III,  Sc.  II. 


VENICE  PRESERVED 


Jaff.  Who   calls! 

Pierr.     A   friend,    that    could    have    wished 
To    have    found    thee    otherwise    employed: 

what,  hunt 

A  wife  on  the  dull  foil!  sure  a  staunch  hus- 
band 
Of    all    hounds    is    the    dullest!      Wilt    thou 

never, 

Never   be   weaned   from    caudles    and   confec- 
tions ? 
What  feminine  tale  hast  thou  been  listening 

to, 
Of    unaired    shirts;    catarrhs    and    toothache 

got 
By    thin-soled    shoes?      Damnation!    that    a 

fellow 

Chosen  to  be  a  sharer  in  the  destruction 
Of    a    whole    people,    should    sneak    thus    in 

corners 
To    ease    his    fulsome    lusts,    and    fool     his 

mind. 
Jaff.     May   not   a   man   then    trifle    out    an 

hour 

With  a  kind  woman  and  not  wrong  his  call- 
ing? 

Pierr.     Not  in  a  cause  like  ours. 
Jaff.  Then,    friend,   our   cause 

Is   in   a  damned  condition:   for   I'll   tell   thee, 
That      canker-worm       called      lechery      has 

touched  it; 
'Tis    tainted    vilely:    wouldst    thou    think    it, 

Renault 
(That      mortified,      old,      withered,      winter 

rogue) 

Loves   simple   fornication   like   a  priest; 
I   found  him  out  for  watering  at  my  wife: 
He  visited  her  last  night  like  a  kind  guard- 
ian: 
Faith,   she  has  some  temptations,  that's   the 

truth  on't. 

Pierr.     He  durst  not  wrong  his  trust! 
Jaff.  'Twas    something    late,    though, 

To  take  the  freedom  of  a  lady's  chamber. 
Pierr.     Was   she   in   bed? 
Jaff.  Yes,    faith,    in    virgin    sheets 

White   as    her   bosom,    Pierre,    dished   neatly 

up, 

Might   tempt  a  weaker  appetite  to  taste. 
Oh,   how   the  old  fox   stunk,   I   warrant   thee, 
When  the  rank  fit  was  on  him! 

Pierr.  Patience    guide    me! 

He   used   no  violence? 

Jaff.  No,  no!  out  on't,  violence! 

Played  with  her  neck,  brushed  her  with   his 

grey-beard, 

Struggled    and    towzed,    tickled    her    till    she 
squeaked  a  little, 

May  be,  or  so — but  not  a  jot  of  violence 

Pierr.     Damn    him ! 

Jaff.     Ay,    so    say    I:    but    hush,    no    more 

on't; 

All  hitherto  is  well,  and   I  believe 
Myself    no    monster    yet:     though    no    man 
knows 


What   fate   he's   born   to:    sure  'tis   near   the 

hour 

We   all   should   meet   for   our   concluding   or- 
ders: 

Will  the  ambassador  be  here   in   person? 
Pierr.     No;    he    has    sent    commission     to 

that    villain, 

Renault,  to  give  the  executing  charge. 
I'd  have  thee  be  a  man,  if  possible, 
And   keep   thy   temper;   for  a   brave   revenge 
Ne'er  comes   too  late. 

Jaff.  Fear   not,   I'm   cool   as  patience: 

Had   he   completed   my   dishonor,   rather 
Than  hazard  the  success  our  hopes   are  ripe 

for, 
I'd  bear  it  all  with  mortifying  virtue. 

Pierr.     He's      yonder      coming      this      way 

through  the  hall; 
His  thoughts  seem  full. 

Jaff.  Prithee    retire,    and    leave    me 

With  him  alone:   111  put  him  to  some  trial, 
See  how  his  rotten  part  will  bear  the  touch- 
ing. 

Pierr.     Be   careful,    then.  [Exit    PIERRE. 

Jaff.  Nay,  never   doubt,  but   trust  me. 

What,   be   a   devil!    take   a   damning   oath 
For   shedding  native   blood!   can   there   be   a 

sin 

In   merciful   repentance?     O   this   villain! 
Enter  RENAULT. 

Ren.     Perverse!  and  peevish!  what  a  slave 

is  man! 
To  let  his  itching  flesh   thus   get  the  better 

of    him ! 
Despatch    the    tool    her    husband— that    were 

well. 
Who's  there? 

Jaff.  A  man. 

Ren.  My    friend,     my    near    ally! 

The    hostage    of    your    faith,    my    beauteous 

charge, 
Is  very  well. 

Jaff.     Sir,  are  you  sure  of  that? 
Stands    she    in    perfect    health?    beats    her 

pulse  even? 
Neither  too  hot  nor  cold? 

Ren.  What   means   that   question? 

Jaff.     Oh,   women  have   fantastic   constitu- 
tions, 

Inconstant  as  their  wishes,  always  wavering, 
And   never  fixed;   was   it  not  boldly  done 
Even  at  first  sight  to  trust  the  thing  I  loved 
(A    tempting    treasure    too!)    with    youth    so 

fierce 

And  vigorous  as  thine?  but  thou  art  honest. 
Ren.     Who    dares    accuse    me? 
Jaff.  Curst   be    him    that    doubts 

Thy  virtue:  I  have  tried  it,  and  declare, 
Were   I    to   choose   a   guardian  of   my   honor, 
I'd  put  it  into  thy  keeping;  for  I  know  thee. 
Ren.     Know  me! 

Jaff.  Ay,     know     thee:     there's 

no    falsehood    in    thee. 


98 


ACT  III,  Sc.  II. 


Thou    look'st   just    as    thou   art:    let   us    em- 
brace. 
Now   wouldst    thou   cut   my    throat   or   I    cut 

thine? 

Ren.     You   dare   not   do't. 
Jaff.  You  lie,   sir. 

Ren.  How! 

Jaff.  No  more. 

'Tis  a  base  world,  and  must  reform,  that's 
all. 

Enter  SPINOSA,  THEODORE,  ELIOT,  REVILLIDO, 
DURAND,  BRAINVEIL,  and  the  rest  of  the 
Conspirators. 

Ren.     Spinosa,    Theodore ! 
Spin.  The    same. 

Ren.     You   are   welcome! 

Spin.  You  are  trembling1,   sir. 

Ren.     'Tis  a  cold  night  indeed,   I   am   aged, 
Full  of  decay  and  natural  infirmities; 

[PIERRE  re-enters. 

We    shall   be   warm,    my    friend,    I   hope,    to- 
morrow. 
Pierr.    [aside],     'Twas   not   well   done,   thou 

shouldst   have   stroked   him 
And  not  have  galled  him. 

Jaff.   [aside].  Damn   him,   let   him 

chew  on't. 
Heaven!    where    am    I?    beset    with    cursed 

fiends, 

That  wait  to  damn  me:   what  a  devil's  man, 
When  he  forgets  his  nature — hush,  my  heart. 
Ren.     My    friends,    'tis    late:    are    we    as- 
sembled all? 
Where's   Theodore? 

Theo.  At    hand. 

Ren.  Spinosa. 

Spin.  Here. 

Ren.     Brainveil. 
Brain.  I'm  ready. 

Ren.  Durand  and  Brabe. 

Dur.  Command  us, 

We   are   both   prepared! 

Ren.  Mezzana,    Revillido, 

Ternon,  Retrosi;  oh,  you  are  men,  I  find, 
Fit  to  behold  your  fate,  and  meet  her  sum- 
mons. 

To-morrow's  rising1  sun  must  see  you  all 
Decked    in    your    honors!      Are    the    soldiers 

ready  ? 

Omn.     All,  all. 
Ren.     You,    Durand,    with    your    thousand 

must  possess 
St.   Mark's;  you,   captain,   know  your  charge 

already: 

'Tis   to   secure   the   Ducal   Palace:    you, 
Brabe,   with   a  hundred  more   must   gain   the 

Secque. 
With     the     like     number     Brainveil     to     the 

Procuralle. 

Be  all   this   done  with   the   least   tumult  pos- 
sible, 
Till  in  each  place  you  post  sufficient  guards: 


Then    sheathe    your    swords    in    every    breast 

you    meet. 
Jaff.    [aside].    O  reverend   cruelty!    damned 

bloody  villain ! 

Ren.     During   this   execution,  Durand,  you 
Must   in   the  midst   keep   your   battalia  fast, 
And,    Theodore,    be    sure    to    plant    the    can- 
non 
That     may     command     the     streets;     whilst 

Revillido, 

Mezzana,    Ternon,    and   Retrosi,    guard   you. 
This  done,  we'll  give  the  general  alarm, 
Apply   petards,   and  force   the   arsenal   gates; 
Then   fire   the   city    round   in    several   places, 
Or  with  our  cannon,  if  it  dare  resist, 
Batter   it    to    ruin.     But   above   all    I    charge 

you 
Shed    blood    enough,    spare    neither    sex    nor 

age, 

Name  nor  condition;   if  there  live  a  senator 
After  to-morrow,  though  the  dullest  rogue 
That    e'er    said    nothing,    we    have    lost    our 

ends; 

If  possible,  let's  kill  the  very  name 
Of  senator,  and  bury  it  in  blood. 

Jaff.    [aside].    Merciless,   horrid  slave! — Ay, 

blood  enough ! 
Shed   blood   enough,    old   Renault:    how   thou 

charm'st  me ! 

Ren.     But  one  thing  more,  and  then  fare- 
well till  fate 

Join   us   again,   or   separate  us  ever: 
First,     let's    embrace.      Heaven    knows    who 

next  shall  thus 

Wing  ye  together:  but  let's  all  remember 
We     wear     no     common     cause     upon     our 

swords; 
Let     each     man     think     that     on     his     single 

virtue 

Depends   the  good  and  fame  of  all   the  rest, 
Eternal   honor   or   perpetual    infamy. 
Let's  remember   through   what  dreadful   haz- 
ards 

Propitious  fortune  hitherto  has  led  us, 
How   often    on    the   brink   of   some    discovery 
Have   we   stood   tottering,   yet   still   kept   our 

ground 
So    well,    the    busiest    searchers    ne'er    could 

follow 

Those   subtle   tracks   which   puzzled   all   sus- 
picion: 
You   droop,    sir. 

Jnff.     No;  with  a  most  profound  attention 

I've  heard  it  all,  and  wonder  at   thy  virtue. 

Ren.     Though     there     be     yet     few     hours 

'twixt  them  and  ruin, 

Are  not  the  Senate  lulled  in  full  security, 
Quiet  and  satisfied,  as  fools  are  always! 
Never    did   so   profound   repose    forerun 
Calamity  so  great:  nay,  our  good  fortune 
Has   blinded   the   most   piercing   of   mankind; 
Strengthened     the     fearful'st,     charmed     the 

most    suspectful, 
Confounded  the  most  subtle;  for  we  live, 


99 


ACT  III.  So.  II. 


VENICE  PRESERVED 


We   live,   my   friends,   and   quickly    shall    our 

life 

Prove   fatal    to    these   tyrants:    let's    consider 
That  we  destroy  oppression,  avarice, 
A  people   nursed   up   equally   with   vices 
And  loathsome  lusts,  which  nature  most  ab- 
hors, 
And    such    as    without     shame     she    cannot 

suffer. 
Jaff.    [aside].    O  Belvidera,   take  me  to   thy 

arms 
And  show  me  where's  my  peace,  for  I  have 

lost  it.  [Exit  JAFFEIR. 

Ken.     Without  the  least  remorse  then  let's 

resolve 
With    fire    and    sword    to    exterminate    these 

tyrants, 
And     when     we     shall     behold     those     curst 

tribunals, 
Stained   by    the   tears    and   sufferings    of    the 

innocent, 
Burning    with    flames    rather    from    Heaven 

than    ours, 

The    raging,    furious    and    unpitying    soldier 
Pulling  his  reeking  dagger  from  the  bosoms 
Of   gasping   wretches;    death   in   every    quar- 
ter, 

With  all  that  sad  disorder  can  produce, 
To    make    a    spectacle    of    horror:    then, 
Then  let  us  call  to  mind,  my  dearest  friends, 
That  there  is   nothing   pure   upon   the   earth, 
That     the    most    valued    things     have    most 

alloys, 

And   that   in   change   of   all    those    vile   enor- 
mities, 
Under   whose   weight    this    wretched   country 

labors, 
The   means   are  only   in  our  hands,   to   crown 

them. 
Pierr.     And  may   those  powers  above   that 

are    propitious 
To     gallant     minds    record    this    cause,     and 

bless    it. 
Ren.     Thus   happy,    thus    secure    of   all    we 

wish   for, 
Should  there,  my  friends,  be   found  amongst 

us  one 

False  to   this  glorious  enterprise,  what   fate, 
What    vengeance    were    enough    for    such    a 

villain  ? 
Eliot.     Death  here  without  repentance,  hell 

hereafter. 
Ren.     Let    that    be    my    lot,    if    as    here    I 

stand 

Listed  by  fate  amongst   her  darling  sons, 
Though    I'd    one    only    brother,    dear    by    all 
The  strictest  ties  of  nature;  though  one  hour 
Had    given    us    birth,    one    fortune    fed    our 

wants, 

One   only   love,   and   that   but   of  each   other, 
Still    filled   our    minds:   could   I    have    such   a 

friend 
Joined  in  this  cause,  and  had  but  ground   to 

fear 


Meant   foul  play;  may   this   right   hand   drop 

from   me, 

If  I'd  not  hazard  all  my  future  peace, 
And  stab  him  to  the  heart  before  you.     Who 
Would     not     do    less?       Wouldst    not     thou, 

Pierre,  the  same? 
Pierr.     You've  singled  me,  sir,  out  for  this 

hard    question, 

As   if   'twere   started  only   for  my   sake! 
Am  I   the  thing  you   fear?     Here,   here's   my 

bosom, 
Search    it    with    all    your    swords!     Am    I    a 

traitor? 
Ren.     No:  but  I  fear  your  late  commended 

friend 

Is  little   less.     Come,   sirs,    'tis   now   no   time 
To     trifle     with     our     safety.      Where's     this 

Jaffeir? 
Spin.     He     left     the     room     just     now     in 

strange  disorder. 

Ren.     Nay,   there  is   danger  in  him:    I   ob- 
served  him, 

During   the  time  I   took  for  explanation, 
He   was   transported   from   most   deep   atten- 
tion 

To  a  confusion  which  he  could  not  smother. 
His  looks  grew  full  of  sadness  and  surprise, 
All  which  betrayed  a  wavering  spirit  in  him, 
That    labored    with    reluctancy    and    sorrow. 
What's    requisite   for   safety    must    be    done 
With   speedy   execution:   he  remains 
Yet  in  our  power:   I   for  my   own  part  wear 
A    dagger. 
Pierr.      Well. 

Ren.  And  I   could  wish  it 

Pierr.  Where? 

Ren.     Buried  in  his  heart. 
Pierr.  Away!  we're  yet  all  friends; 

No     more     of     this,     'twill     breed     ill     blood 

amongst  us. 
Spin.     Let    us    all    draw    our    swords,    and 

search  the  house, 
Pull   him   from   the   dark   hole   where   he   sits 

brooding 
O'er   his    cold    fears,    and    each    man    kill    his 

share  of  him. 
Pierr.     Who  talks  of  killing?     Who's  he'll 

shed   the  blood 
That's    dear   to   me!     Is't   you?   or   you?   or 

you,    sir  ? 

What,   not   one   speak?   how   you    stand    gap- 
ing  all 
On     your     grave    oracle,     your    wooden     god 

there; 
Yet  not  a  word:   [to  RENAULT]   then,  sir,   I'll 

tell  you  a  secret, 
Suspicion's    but   at    best    a    coward's    virtue! 

Ren.     A  coward [Handles  his  sword. 

Pierr.  Put,  put  up  the  sword,  old  man, 

Thy  hand  shakes  at  it;   come,  let's  heal  this 

breach, 

I  am  too  hot;  we  yet  may  live  as  friends. 
Spin.     Till    we    are     safe,     our     friendship 
cannot  be  so. 


100 


VENICE  PRESERVED 


ACT  IV,  Sc.  I. 


Pierr.     Again:   who's   that? 
Spin.  'Twas   I. 

Theo.  And  I. 

Revill.  And  I. 

Eliot.  And  all. 

Ren.     Who  are  on   my   side? 
Spin.  Every  honest  sword; 

Let's    die    like    men    and    not    be    sold    like 

slaves. 
Pierr.     One    such    word    more,    by    Heaven, 

I'll   to  the  Senate 

And   hang  ye  all,    like  dogs   in   clusters. 
Why  peep  your  coward  swords  half  out  their 

shells? 
Why    do    you    not    all    brandish    them    like 

mine? 

You  fear  to  die,  and  yet  dare  talk  of  killing? 
Ren.     Go    to    the    Senate    and    betray    us, 

hasten, 

Secure  thy  wretched  life,  we  fear  to  die 
Less    than    thou    dar'st    be    honest. 

Pierr.  That's   rank  falsehood. 

Fear'st  not  thou  death?  Be,  there's  a  knav- 
ish itch 

In   that  salt  blood,  an  utter  foe  to  smarting. 
Had  Jaffeir's   wife  proved   kind,    he   had   still 

been    true. 

Foh — how   that   stinks ! 
Thou   die!   thou   kill   my   friend,   or   thou,  or 

thou, 
Or  thou,  with  that  lean,  withered,  wretched 

face! 

Away!  disperse  all  to  your  several  charges, 
And  meet  to-morrow  where  your  honor  calls 

you; 
I'll    bring    that    man,    whose    blood    you    so 

much  thirst  for, 
And    you    shall    see    him    venture    for    you 

fairly — 

Hence,  hence,  I  say.      [Exit  RENAULT  angrily. 
Spin.  I  fear  we've  been  to  blame: 

And  done  too  much. 

Theo.     'Twas    too    far    urged    against    the 

man   you   loved. 
Revill.     Here,   take   our   swords  and   crush 

'em   with   your   feet. 
Spin.     Forgive  us,  gallant  friend. 
Pierr.  Nay,  now  you've  found 

The     way     to     melt    and     cast     me     as     you 

will: 
I'll   fetch   this  friend   and   give  him   to   your 

mercy: 
Nay,  he  shall  die  if  you  will  take  him  from 

me; 

For   your   repose   I'll    quit   my   heart's   jewel, 
But  would   not   have   him   torn   away   by   vil- 
lains 
And   spiteful   villainy. 

Spin.  No;   may  you  both 

For  ever  live  and  fill   the  world  with  fame! 
Pierr.     Now    you    are    too    kind.      Whence 

rose   all   this   discord? 

Oh,    what    a    dangerous    precipice    have    we 
scaped ! 


How   near   a    fall   was   all   we   had   long   been 

building ! 

What  an  eternal  blot  had  stained  our  glories, 
If  one,  the  bravest  and  the  best  of  men, 
Had  fallen  a  sacrifice  to  rash  suspicion, 
Butchered    by    those    whose    cause    he    came 

to   cherish! 
Oh,  could  you  know  him  all  as  I  have  known 

him, 
How    good   he    is,    how   just,    how    true,    how 

brave, 
You   would  not  leave  this  place  till  you   had 

seen   him; 

Humbled  yourself  before  him,  kissed  his  feet, 

And  gained  remission  for  the  worst  of  follies; 

Come  but  to-morrow  all  your  doubts  shall 

end, 

And   to  your   loves  me  better  recommend, 

That  I've  preserved  your  fame,  and  saved 

my  friend.  [Exeunt   omnes. 

ACT    IV 

SCENE   I 
Enter  JAFFEIR   and   BELVIDERA. 

Jaff.     Where   dost    thou    lead    me?     Every 

step  I  move, 

Methinks    I    tread   upon    some   mangled   limb 
Of    a    racked    friend.     O   my    dear   charming 

ruin! 
Where   are   we  wandering? 

Belv.  To    eternal   honor; 

To   do  a  deed  shall  chronicle  thy   name, 
Among    the   glorious   legends    of   those   few 
That    have    saved    sinking    nations:    thy    re- 
nown 

Shall  be   the   future   song   of  all   the   virgins, 
Who  by  thy  piety   have  been   preserved 
From   horrid   violation:    every    street 
Shall  be  adorned  with   statues   to   thy  honor, 
And  at  thy  feet   this   great  inscription   writ- 
ten, 

Remember  him  that  propped  the  fall  of  Venice. 
Jaff.     Rather,  remember  him  who  after  all 
The  sacred  bonds  of  oaths  and  holier  friend- 
ship, 

In  fond  compassion  to  a  woman's  tears 
Forgot  his  manhood,  virtue,  truth  and  honor, 
To  sacrifice  the  bosom  that  relieved  him. 
Why   wilt   thou   damn   me? 

Belv.  O    inconstant    man ! 

How    will    you    promise?    how    will    you    de- 
ceive ? 

Do,    return   back,    replace    me    in    my    bond- 
age, 
Tell    all    thy    friends    how    dangerously    thou 

lov'st    me, 

And  let  thy  dagger  do  its  bloody  office; 
O   that   kind   dagger,   Jaffeir,    how   'twill   look 
Stuck    through    my    heart,    drenched    in    my 

blood    to    the   hilts! 

Whilst    these    poor    dying    eyes    shall    with 
their  tears 


101 


ACT  IV,  Sc.  I. 


VENICE  PRESERVED 


No    more    torment    thee,    then    thou    wilt    be 

free: 

Or  if  thou   think'st  it  nobler,  let  me  live 
Till  I'm  a  victim  to  the  hateful  lust 
Of  that  infernal  devil,  that  old  fiend 
That's     damned     himself     and     would     undo 
mankind: 

Last  night,  my  love 

Jaff.  Name,  name  it  not  again, 

It  shows  a  beastly   image  to  my  fancy, 
Will  wake  me  into  madness.    Oh,  the  villain! 
That  durst  approach  such  purity  as  thine 
On  terms  so  vile:  destruction,  swift  destruc- 
tion 
Fall     on     my    coward-head,     and     make    my 

name 

The  common  scorn  of  fools  if  I  forgive  him; 
If  I   forgive  him,   if  I   not  revenge 
With  utmost  rage  and  most  unstaying  fury, 
Thy  suffering,  thou  dear  darling  of  my  life, 

love! 
Belr.     Delay    no   longer,    then,    but   to    the 

Senate; 

And   tell   the   dismal'st   story  ever  uttered, 
Tell    them    what   bloodshed,    rapines,    desola- 
tions, 
Have    been    prepared,    how    near's    the    fatal 

hour! 
Save    thy    poor    country,    save    the    reverend 

blood 

Of    all   its    nobles,    which    to-morrow's    dawn 
Must    else    see    shed:    save    the   poor    tender 

lives 

Of  all   those  little  infants  which  the  swords 
Of    murtherers    are    whetting    for    this    mo- 
ment: 
Think     thou     already     hear'st     their     dying 

screams, 
Think    that    thou    seest    their   sad    distracted 

mothers 

Kneeling   before   thy   feet,   and   begging   pity 
With    torn    dishevell'd    hair    and    streaming 

eyes, 
Their  naked  mangled  breasts  besmeared  with 

blood, 
And  even  the  milk  with  which  their  fondled 

babes, 
Softly     they    hushed,    dropping     in     anguish 

from    'em. 
Think  thou  seest  this,  and  then  consult  thy 

heart. 
Jaff.     Oh ! 
Belv.     Think   too,    if    [that]    thou   lose   this 

present  minute, 

What  miseries  the  next  day  bring  upon  thee. 
Imagine  all  the  horrors  of  that  night, 
Murder   and    rapine,   waste   and   desolation, 
Confusedly   ranging.     Think   what   then   may 

prove 

My    lot!   the   ravisher   may    then   come    safe, 
And  midst  the  terror  of  the  public  ruin 
Do   a   damned   deed;    perhaps    to  lay   a    train 
May   catch  thy   life;    then  where  will  be  re- 
venge, 


The     dear     revenge     that's     due     to    such    a 

wrong  ? 
Jaff.     By    all    Heaven's    powers,    prophetic 

truth   dwells   in   thee, 
For  every  word  thou  speak'st  strikes  through 

my    heart 
Like   a   new  light,   and   shows   it   how   it   has 

wandered ; 
Just  what  thou'st  made  me,  take  me,  Belvi- 

dera, 

And  lead  me  to  the  place  where   I'm  to  say 
This  bitter  lesson,  where  I  must  betray 
My  truth,  my  virtue,  constancy  and  friends: 
Must    I    betray    my    friends?     Ah,    take    me 

quickly, 

Secure    me    well    before    that    thought's    re- 
newed; 

If   I    relapse   once   more,   all's    lost    for   ever. 
Belv.     Hast  thou  a  friend  more  dear  than 

Belvidera? 
Jaff.     No,    thou'rt   my    soul    itself;    wealth, 

friendship,    honor, 

All   present  joys,   and   earnest   of  all   future, 
Are  summed  in  thee:  methinks  when  in  thy 

arms 
Thus    leaning   on    thy    breast,   one    minute's 

more 
Than     a     long     thousand     years     of     vulgar 

hours. 

Why  was  such  happiness  not  given  me  pure? 
Why    dashed   with   cruel    wrongs,    and    bitter 

wantings  ? 

Come,  lead  me  forward  now  like  a  tame  lamb 
To  sacrifice,  thus  in  his  fatal   garlands, 
Decked    fine    and   pleased,    the   wanton    skips 

and  plays, 
Trots  by    the   enticing  flattering   priestess' 

side, 

And  much  transported  with  his  little  pride, 
Forgets  his  dear  companions  of  the  plain 
Till,  by  her  bound,  he's  on  the  altar  lain, 
Yet  then  too  hardly  bleats,  such  pleasure's 

in   the  pain. 

Enter   Officer  and  six  Guards. 

OfRc.     Stand;   who   goes    there? 

Belv.  Friends. 

Jaff.     Friends,     Belvidera!     hide     me    from 

my   friends: 

By   Heaven,   I'd  rather   see   the  face  of   hell, 
Than  meet   the  man   I   love. 

OfKc.  But  what  friends  are  you? 

Bch:     Friends     to     the     Senate     and     the 

State  of  Venice. 

OfRc.     My  orders  are  to  seize  on  all  I  find 
At    this    late    hour,    and    bring    'em    to    the 

Council, 
Who    now    are    sitting. 

Jaff.  Sir,   you   shall   be  obeyed. 

Hold,    brutes,    stand  off,   none   of   your  paws 

upon  me. 

Now  the   lot's   cast,   and  fate,   do  what  thou 
wilt!  [Exeunt    guarded. 


102 


VENICE  PRESERVED 


ACT  IV,  So.  II. 


•  SCENE  II 
THE  SENATE-HOUSE. 

Where   appear  sitting,    the    DUKE   OF   VENICE, 
PRIULI,  ANTONIO,  and  eight  other  Senators. 

Duke.     Antony,  Priuli,   senators  of  Venice, 

Speak;     why    are    we    assembled    here    this 
night? 

What    have   you    to    inform    us    of,    concerns 

The    State    of   Venice'    honor,    or    its    safety? 
Priu.     Could    words    express    the    story    I 
have   to   tell   you, 

Fathers,   these  tears  were  useless,  these  sad 
tears 

That    fall    from    my    old    eyes;    but    there    is 
cause 

We   all   should    weep;    tear   off   these   purple 
robes, 

And    wrap    ourselves    in    sackcloth,     sitting 
down 

On  the  sad  earth,  and  cry  aloud  to  Heaven. 

Heaven   knows    if   yet   there    be   an    hour    to 
come 

Ere  Venice  be  no  more. 
All  Senators.  How! 

Priu.  Nay,   we  stand 

Upon  the  very  brink  of  gaping  ruin. 

Within  this  city's  formed  a  dark  conspiracy, 

To  massacre  us  all,  our  wives  and  children, 

Kindred  and  friends,  our  palaces  and  temples 

To  lay  in  ashes:   nay,  the   hour,   too,   fixed; 

The   swords,    for  aught   I   know,   drawn   e'en 
this  moment, 

And   the    wild    waste   begun:    from    unknown 
hands 

I  had  this  warning:   but  if  we  are  men, 

Let's  not  be  tamely  butchered,  but  do  some- 
thing 

That  may  inform  the  world  in  after  ages, 

Our  virtue  was  not  ruined  though  we  were. 
[A    noise  without. 

Room,    room,    make    room    for    some    prison- 
ers  

Second  Senator.     Let's   raise   the  city. 

Enter  Officer  and   Guard, 

Priu.  Speak   there,  what  disturbance? 

OfKc.     Two  prisoners  have  the  guard  seized 

in   the   streets, 
Who  say  they  come  to  inform  this  reverend 

Senate 
About  the  present  danger. 

Enter  JAFFEIR   and  BELVIDERA  guarded. 

All.  Give  'em  entrance 

Well,  who  are  you? 

Jaff.  A   villain. 

Anto.  Short  and  pithy. 

The  man  speaks  well. 

Jaff.  Would  every  man  that  hears  me 
Would  deal  so  honestly,  and  own  his  title. 


Duke.     'Tis   rumored   that   a   plot  has   been 

contrived 
Against   this   State;    that   you   have  a   share 

in't  too. 

If  you're  a  villain,  to  redeem  your  honor, 
Unfold  the  truth  and  be  restored  with  mercy. 
Jaff.     Think    not    that    I    to    save    my    life 

come  hither, 

I  know  its  value  better;  but  in  pity 
To  all  those  wretches  whose  unhappy  dooms 
Are  fixed  and  sealed.     You  see  me   here  be- 
fore you, 

The  sworn  and  covenanted  foe  of  Venice; 
But  use  me  as  my  dealings  may  deserve 
And  I  may  prove  a  friend. 

Duke.  The   slave    capitulates; 

Give   him   the    tortures. 

Jaff.  That    you    dare    not    do, 

Your   fears    won't   let   you,    nor   the    longing 

itch 
To  hear  a  story  which  you  dread   the  truth 

of, 
Truth    which    the   fear   of    smart    shall    ne'er 

get  from  me. 
Cowards  are  scared  with   threafnings ;   boys 

are  whipp'd 

Into  confessions:  but  a  steady  mind 
Acts   of   itself,   ne'er  asks   the   body   counsel. 
"  Give   him   the   tortures ! "     Name  but   such 

a  thing 
Again,    by    Heaven    I'll    shut    these    lips    for 

ever, 
Not   all   your   racks,   your   engines,    or    your 

wheels 
Shall    force    a    groan    away — that    you    may 

guess   at. 

Anto.     A    bloody-minded    fellow,    I'll    war- 
rant; 

A  damned  bloody-minded  fellow. 
Duke.  Name  your  conditions. 
Jaff.  For  myself  full  pardon, 

Besides  the  lives  of  two  and  twenty   friends 
[Delivers   a   list. 
Whose    names    are    here    enrolled:    nay,    let 

their  crimes 
Be    ne'er    so    monstrous,    I    must    have    the 

oaths 

And   sacred  promise  of   this   reverend  Coun- 
cil, 

That  in  a  full  assembly  of  the  Senate 
The  thing  I  ask  be  ratified.     Swear  this, 
And   I'll   unfold   the   secrets   of  your   danger. 
All.     We'll  swear. 
Duke.  Propose  the  oath. 

Jaff.  By  all  the  hopes 

Ye    have   of   peace   and    happiness    hereafter, 
Swear. 

All.     We  all  swear, 

Jaff.  To  grant  me  what  I've  asked, 

Ye  swear? 

A II.        We   swear. 

Jaff.  And  as  ye  keep  the  oath, 

May  you  and  your  posterity  be  blest 
Or  curst  for  ever. 


103 


ACT  IV,  Sc.  II. 


Else  be  curst  for  ever. 
Jaff.     Then    here's    the    list,    and    with    it 

the  full  disclose 
Of  all  that  threatens   you. 

IDelii'ers  another  paper. 

Now,   fate,    thou    hast    caught   me. 

Anto.     Why,     what     a     dreadful     catalogue 

of  cut-throats  is  here!    I'll  warrant  you,  not 

one   of    these   fellows    but   has    a    face   like   a 

lion.      I    dare    not    so    much    as    read    their 

names  over. 

Duke.     Give  orders  that  all  diligent  search 

be  made 
To    seize    these    men,    their    characters    are 

public; 

The    paper    intimates    their    rendezvous 
To  be  at  the  house  of  a  famed  Grecian  cour- 
tesan 
Called   Aquilina;    see   that   place    secured. 

Anto. 

What,    my    Nicky    Nacky,    hurry    durry, 
Nicky  Nacky  in  the  plot— I'll  make  a  speech. 
Most  noble  Senators, 

What  headlong  apprehension  drives  you  on, 
Right  noble,  wise  and  truly  solid  senators, 
To  violate  the  laws  and  rights  of  nations? 
The  lady  is  a  lady  of  renown. 
"Tis  true,  she  holds  a  house  of  fair  recep- 
tion, 

And  though  I   say  it  myself,  as  many  more 
Can    say    as    well    as    I. 

Second  Senator.       My  lord,   long   speeches 
Are  frivolous  here  when  dangers  are  so  near 

us; 

We   all  know  your  interest  in  that  lady, 
The  world  talks   loud   on't. 

Anto.  Verily,  I  have  done, 

I   say   no   more. 

Duke.  But    since   he   has   declared 

Himself  concerned,  pray,  captain,  take  great 

caution 

To  treat   the  fair  one  as  becomes  her  char- 
acter, 
And   let    her   bed-chamber   be    searched   with 

decency. 
You,    Jaffeir,    must    with    patience    bear    till 

morning 
To  be  our  prisoner. 

Jaff.  Would   the  chains  of  death 

Had    bound    me    fast    ere    I    had    known    this 

minute. 

I've  done  a  deed  will   make  my   story   here- 
after 

Quoted  in  competition  with  all  ill  ones: 
The  history  of  my  wickedness  shall  run 
Down  through  the  low  traditions  of  the 

vulgar, 

And   boys  be   taught   to  tell   the   tale   of   Jaf- 
feir. 

Duke.     Captain,  withdraw  your  prisoner. 
Jaff.  Sir,   if  possible, 

Lead    me    where    my    own    thoughts    them- 
selves may  lose  me, 
Where  I  may  doze  out  what  I've  left  of  life, 


Forget  myself  and  this  day's  guilt  and  false- 
hood. 

Cruel  remembrance,  how  shall  I  appease 
thee!  [Exit  guarded. 

Noise  without: 

More  traitors;  room,  room,  make  room  there. 

Duke.     How's    this?  guards! 
Where  are  our  guards?    Shut  up   the  gates, 

the   treason  's 
Already  at  our  doors. 

Enter  Officer. 

Offic.  My  lords,  more  traitors: 

Seized   in   the   very   act  of  consultation; 
Furnished    with    arms    and    instruments    of 

mischief. 
Bring   in   the   prisoners. 

Enter  PIERRE,  RENAULT,  THEODORE,  ELIOT, 
REVILLIDO,  and  other  Conspirators,  in  fet- 
ters, guarded. 

Pierr.  You,  my  lords  and  fathers 

(As   you   are   pleased   to    call   yourselves)    of 

Venice; 

If  you  sit  here  to  guide  the  course  of  justice, 
Why     these     disgraceful     chains     upon     the 

limbs 

That  have  so  often  labored  in  your  service? 
Are    these    the    wreaths    of    triumph    ye    be- 
stow 
On    those    that    bring    you    conquests    home 

and   honors? 

Duke.     Go  on:  you  shall  be  heard,  sir. 
Anto.     And  be  hanged  too,  I  hope. 
Pierr.     Are  these  the  trophies  I've  deserved 

for  fighting 

Your  battles  with  confederated  powers? 
When    winds    and    seas    conspired    to    over- 
throw  you, 
And  brought  the  fleets  of  Spain  to  your  own 

harbors: 
When  you,  great  Duke,  shrunk  trembling  in 

your   palace, 

And    saw    your    wife,   the    Adriatic,    ploughed 
Like    a    lewd    whore    by    bolder    prows    than 

yours, 
Stepped  not  I   forth,   and   taught  your  loose 

Venetians, 

The  task  of  honor  and  the  way  to  greatness, 
Rais'd    you    from   your   capitulating    fears 
To  stipulate  the  terms  of  sued-for  peace? 
And   this   my   recompense?     If   I'm   a    traitor 
Produce    my    charge;    or    show    the    wretch 

that's   base    enough 
And  brave  enough   to   tell  me   I'm  a  traitor. 
Duke.     Know  you  one  Jaffeir? 

[All   the    Conspirators    murmur. 

Pierr.  Yes,  and  know  his  virtue, 

His    justice,    truth;    his    general    worth    and 

sufferings 
From  a  hard  father  taught  me  first  to  love 

him. 


104 


VENICE  PRESERVED 


ACT  IV,  Sc.  II. 


Enter  JAFFEIR   guarded. 

Duke.     See  him  brought  forth. 
Pierr.  My   friend   too   bound!   nay   then 

Our    fate    has    conquered    us,    and    we    must 

fall. 
Why    droops    the    man    whose    welfare's    so 

much    mine 
They're    but    one     thing:?      These    reverend 

tyrants,    Jaffeir, 

Call  us  all  traitors:  art  thou  one,   my  brother? 
JatT.     To    thee    I    am    the    falsest,    veriest 

slave 
That     e'er    betrayed     a     generous,     trusting 

friend, 

And  gave  up   honor  to  be   sure  of  ruin. 
All    our    fair    hopes    which    morning    was    to 

have    crowned 
Has   this   curst  tongue   o'erthrown. 

Pierr.  So,   then,  all's  over; 

Venice  has  lost  her  freedom;  I  my  life; 
No   more;   farewell. 

Duke.  Say,   will   you   make   confession 

Of    your   vile    deeds   and    trust    the    Senate's 

mercy  ? 
Pierr.     Curst   be   your  Senate;    curst   your 

constitution; 

The   curse   of  growing  factions  and   division 
Still    vex    your    councils,    shake    your    public 

safety, 
And    make    the    robes    of    government    you 

wear, 

Hateful  to  you,  as  these  base  chains  to  me! 
Duke.     Pardon  or  death? 
Pierr.  Death,  honorable  death! 

Ren.     Death's    the    best    thing    we    ask    or 

you   can   give. 

All  Conspir.     No  shameful  bonds,  but  hon- 
orable   death. 
Duke.      Break     up     the     council:     captain, 

guard   your   prisoners. 

Jaffeir,    you    are    free,    but    these   must   wait 

for  judgment.          [Exeunt  all  the  Senators. 

Pierr.     Come,    where's    my    dungeon?    lead 

me  to  my  straw: 

It  will  not  be  the  first  time  I've  lodged  hard 
To  do  your  Senate  service. 

Jaff.  Hold    one    moment. 

Pierr.     Who's  he  disputes  the  judgment  of 
the   Senate? 

Presumptuous   rebel — on 

[Strikes  JAFFEIR. 

Jaff.  By  Heaven,  you  stir  not. 

I  must  be  heard,  I  must  have  leave  to  speak; 
Thou    hast    disgraced    me,   Pierre,    by    a   vile 

blow: 

Had  not  a  dagger  done  thee  nobler  justice? 
But    use   me    as    thou    wilt,    thou    canst    not 

wrong    me, 

For  I  am  fallen  beneath  the  basest  injuries; 
Yet  look  upon  me  with -an  eye  of  mercy, 
With  pity  and  with  charity  behold   me; 
Shut    not    thy    heart    against    a   friend's    re- 
pentance, 


But    as    there    dwells    a    god-like    nature    in 

thee 

Listen  with  mildness   to  my  supplications. 
Pierr.     What     whining     monk     art     thou? 

what    holy    cheat, 
That    wouldst    encroach    upon    my    credulous 

ears 
And    cant'st    thus    vilely?     Hence.     I    know 

thee  not. 

Dissemble  and  be  nasty:  leave  me,  hypocrite. 
Jaff.     Not    know    me,    Pierre? 
Pierr.  No,  I  know  thee  not: 

what  art   thou? 
Jaff.     Jaffeir,    thy   friend,    thy    once    loved, 

valued   friend! 
Though    now    deservedly    scorned,    and    used 

most  hardly. 
Pierr.     Thou  Jaffeir!    Thou  my  once  loved 

valued   friend  ? 
By   Heavens,   thou   liest;    the    man    so-called, 

my  friend, 
Was     generous,    honest,     faithful,    just    and 

valiant, 

Noble  in  mind,  and  in  his  person  lovely, 
Dear   to   my   eyes   and   tender   to  my   heart: 
But  thou   a  wretched,   base,   false,   worthless 

coward, 
Poor    even    in    soul,    and    loathsome    in    thy 

aspect, 
AH    eyes    must    shun    thee,    and    all    hearts 

detest   thee. 
Prithee   avoid,    nor   longer   cling   thus   round 

me, 
Like    something    baneful,    that    my    nature's 

chilled   at. 
Jaff.     I    have   not   wronged   thee,    by    these 

tears    I    have    not. 
But    still    am    honest,    true,    and    hope    too, 

valiant; 
My    mind    still    full    of    thee,    therefore    still 

noble ; 
Let    not    thy    eyes    then    shun    me,    nor    thy 

heart 

Detest  me  utterly:  oh,  look  upon  me, 
Look  back  and  see  my  sad,  sincere  submis- 
sion! 
How  my  heart  swells,  as  even  'twould  burst 

my   bosom; 

Fond  of  its  goal,  and  laboring  to  be  at  thee ! 
What   shall    I    do?   what    say    to   make    thee 

hear  me? 
Pierr.     Hast  thou  not  wronged  me?  dar'st 

thou   call    thyself 
Jaffeir,    that    once    loved,    valued    friend    of 

mine, 
And    swear     thou     hast    not     wronged    me? 

Whence   these   chains  ? 
Whence    the    vile    death    which    I    may    meet 

this    moment? 
Whence   this   dishonor,    but   from   thee,   thou 

false    one  ? 
Jaff.     All's  true,  yet   grant  one   thing,  and 

I've    done    asking. 
Pierr.     What's  that? 


105 


ACT  IV,  Sc.  II. 


VENICE  PRESERVED 


Jaff.       To  take  thy  life  on  such  conditions 
The    Council    have    proposed:    thou    and    thy 

friends 

May  yet  live  long,  and  to  be  better  treated. 
Pierr.     Life!   ask   my    life!   confess!   record 

myself 

A   villain    for    the   privilege    to   breathe, 
And  carry  up  and  down  this  cursed  city 
A   discontented    and    repining    spirit, 
Burthensome    to    itself    a    few    years    longer, 
To  lose  it,  may  be,  at  last  in  a  lewd  quarrel 
For   some  new  friend,    treacherous   and  false 

as  thou  art! 
No,    this    vile   world   and    I    have    long   been 

jangling, 

And   cannot  part  on  better  terms  than  now, 
When  only  men  like  thee  are  fit  to  live  in't. 

Jaff.     By   all    that's   just 

Pierr.  Swear  by  some  other  powers, 

For   thou   hast   broke   that    sacred   oath   too 

lately. 
Jaff.     Then    by   that   hell   I   merit,   I'll   not 

leave   thee, 

Till  to  thyself  at  least  thou'rt  reconciled, 
However   thy  resentment  deal  with  me. 
Pierr.     Not  leave  me! 
Jaff.  No,    thou    shall    not 

force   me  from  thee. 

Use  me  reproachfully,  and  like  a  slave, 
Tread    on    me,    buffet    me,    heap    wrongs    on 

wrongs 

On  my   poor  head:   I'll  bear  it  all  with   pa- 
tience, 

Shall  weary  out  thy  most  unfriendly  cruelty, 
Lie   at   thy   feet   and   kiss   'em,   though   they 

spurn  me, 

Till,  wounded  by  my  sufferings,  thou  relent, 
And    raise   me    to    thy   arms   with    dear    for- 
giveness. 

Pierr.     Art  thou  not 

Jaff.  What? 

Pierr.  A  traitor? 

Jaff.  Yes. 

Pierr.  A  villain? 

Jaff.     Granted. 

Pierr.  A  coward,  a  most  scandalous 

coward, 

Spiritless,   void   of  honor,   one  who  has   sold 
Thy  everlasting  fame  for  shameless  life? 
Jaff.     All,   all,   and  more,   much   more:   my 

faults  are  numberless. 

Pierr.     And  wouldst  thou  have  me  live  on 
terms    like    thine  ? 

Base  as  thou  art  false 

Jaff.  No,  'tis  to  me  that's  granted. 

The  safety  of  thy  life  was  all  I  aimed  at, 
In  recompense  for  faith  and  trust  so  broken. 
Pierr.     I   scorn  it  more  because  preserved 

by  thee. 

And  as  when  first  my  foolish  heart  took  pity 
On    thy    misfortunes,     sought    thee    in    thy 

miseries, 

Relieved  thy  wants,  and  raised  thee  from  thy 
state 


Of     wretchedness     in     which     thy     fate     had 
plunged    thee, 

To  rank  thee  in  my  list  of  noble  friends; 

All   I   received  in   surety  for   thy   truth, 

Were  unregarded  oaths;  and   this,  this   dag- 
ger, 

Given    with    a    worthless   pledge,    thou    since 
hast    stol'n, 

So  I  restore  it  back  to  thee  again, 

Swearing    by    all    those    powers    which    thou 
hast   violated, 

Never    from    this    curst    hour    to    hold    com- 
munion, 

Friendship    or    interest    with    thee,     though 
our  years 

Were  to  exceed  those  limited  the  world. 

Take  it — farewell — for  now  I   owe   thee   noth- 
ing. 

Jaff.     Say  thou  wilt  live,  then. 
Pierr.  For  my  life,   dispose   it 

Just  as  thou  wilt,  because  'tis  what  I'm  tired 

with. 

Jaff.    O  Pierre! 
Pierr.  No   more. 

Jaff.  My  eyes  won't  lose 

the  sight  of  thee, 

But    languish    after    thine,    and    ache    with 

gazing. 

Pierr.     Leave  me — nay,   then,  thus,  thus,   I 
throw    thee    from    me, 

And  curses,  great  as  is  thy  falsehood,  catch 

thee. 

Jaff.     Amen.    He's  gone,  my  father,  friend, 
preserver, 

And  here's  the  portion  he  has  left  me. 

[Holds  the  dagger  up. 

This    dagger,    well    remembered,    with    this 
dagger 

I  gave  a  solemn  vow  of  dire  importance, 

Parted  with  this  and  Belvidera  together; 

Have  a  care,  memory,  drive  that  thought  no 
farther; 

No,   I'll   esteem  it  as  a  friend's  last  legacy, 

Treasure  it  up   within  this  wretched  bosom, 

Where    it    may    grow    acquainted    with    my 
heart, 

That  when  they  meet,   they  start  not  from 
each  other. 

So;  now  for  thinking:  a  blow,  called  traitor, 
villain, 

Coward,  dishonorable  coward,  faugh! 

O  for  a  long  sound  sleep,  and  so  forget  it! 

Down,    busy    devil — 

Enter  BELVIDERA. 

Belv.  Whither   shall  I  fly? 

Where  hide  me  and  my  miseries  together? 
Where's      now      the      Roman      constancy      I 

boasted  ? 

Sunk  into  trembling  fears  and  desperation! 
Not   daring   to  look   up   to   that   dear  face 
Which  used  to  smile  even  on  my  faults,  but 

down 
Bending  these  miserable  eyes  to  earth, 


106 


VENICE  PRESERVED 


ACT  IV,  Sc.  II. 


Must    move    in    penance,    and    implore    much 

mercy. 
Jaff.     "  Mercy,"    kind    Heaven    has    surely 

endless  stores 

Hoarded   for   thee  of  blessings   yet  untasted; 
Let    wretches    loaded    hard    with    guilt    as    I 

am, 
Bow  [with]  the  weight  and  groan  beneath  the 

burthen, 
Creep     with     a     remnant    of    that     strength 

they've  left, 
Before   the   footstool   of   that  Heaven   they've 

injured. 

0  Belvidera!     I'm  the  wretched'st  creature 
E'er  crawled  on  earth;  now  if  thou  hast  vir- 
tue,   help   me, 

Take  me  into  thy  arms,  and  speak  the  words 

of  peace 

To  my  divided  soul,  that  wars  within  me, 
And  raises  every  sense  to  my  confusion; 
By   Heaven,  I'm  tottering  on  the  very  brink 
Of  peace;  and  thou  art  all  the  hold  I've  left. 
Belv.     Alas!  I  know  thy  sorrows  are  most 

mighty; 

1  know   thou'st   cause   to  mourn;    to   mourn, 

my  Jaff eir, 

With   endless  cries,   and  never-ceasing  wail- 
ings, 

Thou'st  lost 

Jaff.  Oh,  I  have  lost  what  can't  be 

counted; 

My  friend  too,  Belvidera,  that  dear  friend, 
Who,    next    to   thee,   was   all   my   health   re- 
joiced in, 
Has  used   me  like  a   slave;   shamefully  used 

me; 
'Twould  break  thy  pitying  heart  to  hear  the 

story. 

What  shall  I  do?  resentment,  indignation, 
Love,     pity,     fear     and     memory,     how     I've 

wronged  him, 

Distract  my  quiet  with  the  very  thought  on't, 
And   tear   my   heart   to  pieces  in   my   bosom. 
Belv.     What  has  he  done? 
Jaff.       Thou'dst  hate  me,  should  I  tell  thee. 
Belv.     Why  ? 
Jaff.     Oh,  he  has  used  me!  yet,  by  Heaven, 

I  bear  it: 

He  has  used  me,  Belvidera,  but  first  swear 
That  when   I've   told  thee,   thou'lt  not  loathe 

me   utterly, 
Though   vilest  blots  and  stains  appear  upon 

me; 

But  still   at   least  with   charitable   goodness, 
Be  near  me  in  the  pangs  of  my  affliction, 
Not  scorn  me,  Belvidera,  as  he  has  done. 
Belv.     Have    I    then    e'er    been    false    that 

now   I'm   doubted? 

Speak,  what's  the  cause  I'm   grown  into  dis- 
trust, 

Why   thought  unfit  to   hear  my  love's  com- 
plaining? 
Jaff.     Oh! 
Belv.     Tell  me. 


Jaff.     Bear  my  failings,  for  they  are  many. 
O  my  dear  angel!  in  that  friend  I've  lost 
All  my  soul's  peace;  for  every  thought  of  him 
Strikes   my   sense  hard,  and  deads   it   in  my 

brains; 

Wouldst  thou  believe  it? 
Belv.  Speak. 

Jaff.  Before  we  parted, 

Ere  yet  his  guards  had  led  him  to  his  prison, 
Full  of  severest  sorrows  for  his  sufferings, 
With  eyes  o'erflowing  and  a  bleeding  heart, 
Humbling  myself  almost  beneath  my  nature, 
As  at  his  feet  I  kneeled,  and  sued  for  mercy, 
Forgetting  all  our  friendship,  all  the  dear- 
ness, 

In    which    we've    lived    so    many    years    to- 
gether, 

With  a  reproachful  hand,  he  dashed  a  blow, 
He  struck  me,  Belvidera,  by  Heaven,  he 

struck  me, 

Buffeted,  called  me  traitor,  villain,  coward. 
Am  I  a  coward?  am  I  a  villain?  tell  me: 
Thou'rt  the  best  judge,  and  mad'st  me,  if  I 

am  so. 
Damnation:  coward! 

Belv.  Oh!  forgive  him,   Jaff  eir. 

And   if    his    sufferings    wound    thy   heart   al- 
ready, 

What  will  they  do  to-morrow? 
Jaff.  Hah! 

Belv.  To-morrow, 

When    thou   shalt    see   him    stretched    in   all 

the  agonies 

Of  a  tormenting  and   a   shameful   death, 
His   bleeding   bowels,   and   his   broken    limbs, 
Insulted  o'er  by  a  vile  butchering  villain; 
What  will  thy  heart  do  then  ?    Oh,  sure  'twill 

stream 
Like  my  eyes  now. 

Jaff.  What  means  thy  dreadful  story? 

Death,     and    to-morrow!    broken    limbs     and 

bowels ! 

Insulted  o'er  by  a  vile  butchering  villain! 
By  all  my  fears  I  shall  start  out  to  madness, 
With    barely    guessing,     if     the     truth's    hid 

longer. 
Belv.     The   faithless   senators,    'tis   they've 

decreed  it: 

They   say  according   to  our  friends'   request, 
They  shall  have  death,  and  not  ignoble  bond- 
age: 

Declare  their  promised  mercy  all  as  forfeited, 
False   to    their   oaths,   and   deaf   to   interces- 
sion; 

Warrants    are    passed    for    public    death    to- 
morrow. 
Jaif.     Death!    doomed    to    die!    condemned 

unheard!   unpleaded! 
Belv,     Nay,    cruellest    racks    and    torments 

are  preparing, 

To  force  confessions  from  their  dying  pangs. 
Oh,  do  not  look  so  terribly  upon  me, 
How  your  lips  shake,  and  all  your  face  dis- 
ordered ! 


107 


ACT  V,  Sc.  I. 


VENICE  PRESERVED 


What  means  my  love? 

Jaff.     Leave  me,  I  charge  thee,  leave  me — 

strong  temptations 
Wake  in  my  heart. 

Beh:  For  what? 

Jaff.  No  more,  but  leave  me. 

Beh:     Why? 

Jaff.     Oh!    by    Heaven,    I    love    thee    with 

that  fondness 

I  would  not  have  thee  stay  a  moment  longer, 
Near    these    curst   hands;   are   they    not   cold 
upon    thee  ? 
[Pulls  the  dagger  half  out   of  his   bosom 

and  puts  it  back  again. 
Beh'.     No,    everlasting    comfort's     in     thy 

arms. 

To  lean  thus  on  thy  breast  is  softer  ease 
Than    downy    pillows    decked    with    leaves    of 

roses. 
Jaff.     Alas!  thou  think'st  not  of  the  thorns 

'tis   filled   with: 
Fly    ere    they    gall    thee:    there's    a    lurking 

serpent, 

Ready   to  leap   and   sting   thee   to  thy   heart; 
Art   thou  not  terrified? 
Beh.  No. 

Jaff.  Call   to  mind, 

What  thou  hast  done,  and  whither  thou  hast 

brought  me. 
Beh.     Hah! 
Jaff.     Where's  my  friend?  my  friend,  thou 

smiling    mischief  ? 
Nay,     shrink    not,     now    'tis    too    late,     thou 

shouldst  have  fled 

When  thy  guilt  first  had  cause,  for  dire  re- 
venge 

Is  up  and  raging  for  my  friend.     He  groans, 
Hark  how  he  groans,  his  screams  are  in  my 

ears 

Already;  see,  they've  fixed  him  on  the  wheel, 
And   now    they    tear   him — Murther!   perjured 

Senate! 

Murther — Oh! — hark  thee,  traitress,  thou  hast 

done    this:  [Fumbling    for    his    dagger. 

Thanks    to    thy    tears    and    false    persuading 

love. 
How    her    eyes    speak !      O    thou    bewitching 

creature ! 
Madness   cannot  hurt  thee:  come,  thou  little 

trembler, 
Creep,    even    into    my    heart,    and    there    lie 

safe: 

'Tis  thy  own  citadel— ha! — yet  stand  off, 
Heaven   must    have    justice,    and   my    broken 

vows 

Will     sink     me     else     beneath     its     reaching 
mercy; 

I'll  wink  and  then  'tis  done 

Belv.  What  means  the  lord 

Of    me,    my    life    and    love?    what's    in    thy 
bosom, 

[Draws   the   dagger,   offers  to   stab   her. 
Thou  grasp's t  at  so?     Nay,  why  am  I   thus 
treated? 


What    wilt    thou    do?     Ah!   do   not    kill    me, 

Jaffeir, 
Pity    these    panting    breasts,    and    trembling 

limbs, 
That  used  to  clasp  thee  when  thy  looks  were 

milder, 

That  yet  hang  heavy  on  my   unpurged  soul, 
And  plunge  it  not  into  eternal  darkness. 

Jaff.     No,   Belvidera,  when  we  parted  last, 
I  gave  this  dagger  with  thee  as  in  trust 
To  be  thy  portion,  if  I  e'er  proved  false. 
On    such    condition    was    my    truth   believed: 
But  now  'tis  forfeited  and  must  be  paid  for. 
[Offers  to  stab   her  again. 
Bclv.    [kneeling].     Oh,   mercy! 
Jaff.  Nay,  no  struggling. 

Belv .  Now,  then,  kill  me. 

[Leaps  upon  his  neck  and  kisses  him. 
While  thus  I  cling  about  thy  cruel  neck, 
Kiss   thy  revengeful  lips   and  die  in  joys 
Greater   than   any   I   can   guess  hereafter. 
Jaff.     I    am,    I    am    a    coward;    witness    it, 

Heaven, 

Witness   it,   earth,  and  every  being   witness; 
'Tis  but  one  blow;  yet,  by  immortal  love, 
I  cannot  longer  bear  a  thought  to  harm  thee; 
[He  throws  away  the  dagger  and  embraces 

her. 

The  seal  of  Providence  is  sure  upon  thee, 
And  thou  wert  born  for  yet  unheard-of  won- 
ders: 
Oh,   thou  wert  either  born   to  save  or   damn 

me! 
By   all   the  power  that's   given  thee  o'er  my 

soul, 
By     thy     resistless     tears     and     conquering 

smiles, 
By    the   victorious    love    that    still    waits    on 

thee, 

Fly  to  thy  cruel  father:  save  my  friend, 
Or  all  our  future  quiet's  lost  for  ever: 
Fall  at  his  feet,  cling  round  his  reverend 

knees; 
Speak   to   him   with    thy   eyes,   and   with   thy 

tears 
Melt  his  hard  heart,   and   wake  dead   nature 

in    him ; 
Crush  him  in  thy  arms,  and  torture  him  with 

thy  softness: 
Nor,    till    thy   prayers    are    granted,    set   him 

free, 
But   conquer   him,    as    thou    hast    vanquished 

me.  [Exeunt  ambo. 

ACT    V 

SCENE  I 
Enter    PRIULI,    solus. 

Priu.  Why,  cruel  Heaven,  have  my  un- 
happy days 

Been  lengthened  to  this  sad  one?  Oh,  dis- 
honor 

And  deathless  infamy  is  fall'n  upon  me! 


103 


VENICE  PRESERVED 


ACT  V,  Sc.  I. 


Was  it  my   fault?     Am   I   a  traitor?    No. 

But  then,  my  only  child,  my  daughter, 
wedded; 

There  my  best  blood  runs  foul,  and  a  disease 

Incurable   has    seized   upon   my  memory, 

To  make  it  rot  and  stink   to  after  ages. 

Curst   be    the   fatal    minute   when   I   got   her; 

Or   would   that    I'd   been   anything    but   man, 

And  raised  an  issue  which  would  ne'er  have 
wronged  me. 

The  miserablest  creatures  (man  excepted) 

Are  not  the  less  esteemed,  though  their  pos- 
terity 

Degenerate  from  the  virtues  of  their  fathers; 

The  vilest  beasts  are  happy  in  their  off- 
springs, 

While  only  man  gets  traitors,  whores  and 
villains. 

Curst  be  the  names,  and  some  swift  blow 
from  fate 

Lay  his  head  deep,  where  mine  may  be  for- 
gotten. 

Enter  BELVIDERA  in  a  long  mourning  veil. 

Bc!:\     He's  there,  my  father,  my  inhuman 

father, 

That,  for  three  years,  has  left  an  only  child 
Exposed  to  all  the  outrages  of  fate, 
And  cruel  ruin — oh! 


Prill. 


What  child  of  sorrow 


Art  thou  that  com'st  thus  wrapt  in  weeds  of 

sadness, 
And   mov'st  as  if  thy  steps  were   towards   a 

grave  ? 
Belv.     A   wretch,    who   from   the    very    top 

of    happiness 

Am  fallen  into  the   lowest  depths  of  misery, 
And    want    your    pitying    hand    to    raise    me 

up  again. 
Priii.     Indeed    thou    talk'st    as    thou    hadst 

tasted  sorrows; 
Would  I  could  help  thee! 

Belv.  'Tis  greatly  in  your  power. 

The  world,  too,  speaks  you  charitable,  and  I, 
Who   ne'er   asked    alms    before,    in   that   dear 

hope 
Am  come  a-begging  to  you,  sir. 

Priu.  For    what? 

Belv.     O   well   regard   me,   is   this    voice   a 

strange  one? 

Consider,  too,  when  beggars  once  pretend 
A  case  like  mine,  no  little  will  content  'em. 
Priu.     What  wouldst  thou  beg  for? 
Belv.  Pity  and  forgiveness. 

[Thows  up  her  veil. 
By     the     kind    tender    names    of     child    and 

father, 
Hear    my    complaints    and    take    me    to    your 

love. 

Priu.     My   daughter? 

Belv.  Yes,  your  daughter,  by  a  mother 
Virtuous  and  noble,  faithful  to  your  honor, 
Obedient  to  your  will,  kind  to  your  wishes, 


Dear  to  your  arms:  by  all  the  joys  she  gave 

you, 
When  in   her  blooming   years    she  was  your 

treasure, 

Look    kindly   on   me;   in   my   face  behold 
The    lineaments    of    hers    you've    kissed     so 

often, 
Pleading    the    cause    of    your    poor    cast-off 

child. 

Priu.     Thou   art   my   daughter? 
Belv.  Yes — and   you've   oft   told    me, 

With    smiles    of    love    and    chaste    paternal 

kisses, 
I'd  much  resemblance  of  my  mother. 


Priu. 


Oh! 


Hadst   thou   inherited  her   matchless   virtues, 
I'd  been  too  bless'd. 

Belv.  Nay,  do  not  call  to  memory 

My  disobedience,  but  let  pity  enter 
Into    your    heart,    and    quite    deface    the    im- 
pression; 
For   could   you   think   how   mine's   perplexed, 

what   sadness, 

Fears   and  despairs  distract  the  peace  with- 
in me, 
Oh,   you   would   take  me   in   your  dear,   dear 

arms, 
Hover    with    strong    compassion    o'er    your 

young  one, 

To  shelter  me  with  a  protecting  wing, 
From   the  black  gathered  storm,   that's   just, 

just   breaking. 
Priu.     Don't  talk  thus. 

Belv.     Yes,  I  must,  and  you  must  hear  too. 
I   have  a  husband. 
Priu.  Damn  him! 

Belv.  Oh,   do  not  curse  him! 

He  would  not  speak  so  hard  a  word  towards 

you 

On  any  terms,  howe'er  he  deal  with  me. 
Priu.     Ha!  what  means  my  child? 
Belv.     Oh,   there's   but   this    short    moment 
'Twixt   me   and   fate,    yet    send   me   not   with 

curses 

Down  to  my  grave,  afford  me  one  kind  bless- 
ing 

Before  we  part:  just   take  me  in  your  arms, 
And     recommend     me      with     a     prayer     to 

Heaven, 
That    I    may    die    in    peace,    and    when    I'm 

dead 

Priu.     How   my   soul's   catched! 
Belv.  Lay  me,   I  beg  you,  lay  me 

By  the  dear  ashes  of  my   tender  mother. 
She  would  have  pitied  me,  had  fate  yet  spared 

her. 

Priu.     By    Heaven,    my   aching   heart    fore- 
bodes much  mischief; 

Tell      me      thy      story,     for     I'm     still      thy 
father. 


Belv. 
Priu. 
Belv. 
Priu. 


No,  I'm   contented. 


Speak. 


No  matter. 


Tell  me. 


109 


ACT  V,  Sc.  I. 


VENICE  PRESERVED 


By    yon   blest    Heaven,    my    heart    runs    o'er 

with  fondness. 
/',•/;•.     Oh! 
Priit.  Utter  it. 

Belt:  O  my  husband,  my  dear 

husband 

Carries  a  dagger  in  his  once  kind  bosom, 
To  pierce  the  heart  of  your  poor  Belvidera. 
Priu,     Kill  thee? 
/•'.•/.-•.     Yes,  kill   me.     When   he  passed  his 

faith 

And  convenant,  against  your  state  and  Sen- 
ate, 

He  gave  me  up  as  hostage  for  his  truth, 
With  me  a  dagger  and  a  dire  commission, 
Whene'er  he  failed,  to  plunge  it  through  this 

bosom. 

I   learnt   the  danger,   chose   the   hour  of  love 
To  attempt   his   heart,  and  bring  it  back   to 

honor. 
Great    love    prevailed    and    blessed    me    with 

success: 
He     came,     confessed,    betrayed    his    dearest 

friends 
For  promised  mercy;  now  they're  doomed  to 

suffer, 
Galled   with  remembrance   of   what   then   was 

sworn, 

If  they  are  lost,  he  vows  to  appease  the  gods 
With  this  poor  life,  and  make  my  blood  the 

atonement. 
Priu.     Heavens ! 
Beh.  Think    you    saw    what    passed    at 

our   last   parting; 

Think  you  beheld  him  like  a  raging  lion, 
Pacing  the  earth  and  tearing  up  his  steps, 
Fate  in  his  eyes,   and  roaring   with   the  pain 
Of    burning    fury;    think    you    saw    his    one 

hand 

Fixed  on  my  throat,  while  the  extended  other 
Grasped     a     keen 

'twas  thus 


threatening     dagger:     oh, 


We    last    embraced,    when,    trembling    with 

revenge, 
He    dragged   me    to    the    ground,    and    at   my 

bosom 
Presented     horrid     death,     cried     out:     "  My 

friends, 
Where  are  my  friends  ?  "  swore,  wept,  raged, 

threatened,  loved, 

For    he   yet   loved,   and    that    dear   love   pre- 
served me, 

To   this   last   trial   of  a  father's  pity. 
I   fear  not  death,  but  cannot  bear  a  thought 
That  that  dear  hand  should  do  the  unfriendly 

office; 

If  I  was  ever  then  your  care,  now  hear  me; 
Fly  to  the  Senate,  save  the  promised  lives 
Of  his  dear  friends,  ere  mine  be  made  the 

sacrifice. 

Priu.     O    my    heart's    comfort ! 
Beh-.  Will    you   not,   my   father? 

Weep  not,  but  answer  me. 

Priu.  By  Heaven,  I  will. 


Not  one  of  'em  but  what  shall  be  immortal. 
Canst  thou  forgive  me  all  my  follies  past, 
I'll   henceforth  be   indeed  a  father;  never, 
Never  more  thus   expose,  but  cherish  thee, 
Dear  as  the  vital  warmth  that  feeds  my  life, 
Dear    as    these    eyes    that    weep    in    fondness 

o'er  thee. 
Peace  to  thy  heart.    Farewell. 

Belv.  Go,    and   remember 

'Tis  Belvidera's  life  her  father  pleads  for. 

[Exeunt  severally. 

Enter  ANTONIO. 

.•Into.  Hum,  hum,  ha,  Signior  Priuli,  my 
lord  Priuli,  my  lord,  my  lord,  my  lord:  [how] 
we  lords  love  to  call  one  another  by  our 
titles!  My  lord,  my  lord,  my  lord — pox  on 
him,  I  am  a  lord  as  well  as  he;  and  so  let 
him  fiddle — I'll  warrant  him  he's  gone  to  the 
Senate-house,  and  I'll  be  there  too,  soon 
enough  for  somebody.  'Od,  here's  a  tickling 
speech  about  the  plot,  I'll  prove  there's  a 
plot  with  a  vengeance — would  I  had  it  with- 
out book;  let  me  see — 
"  Most  reverend  Senators, 

That  there  is  a  plot,  surely  by  this  time, 
no  man  that  hath  eyes  or  understanding  in 
his  head  will  presume  to  doubt,  'tis  as  plain 
as  the  light  in  the  cucumber " — no— hold 
there — cucumber  does  not  come  in  yet — "  'tis 
as  plain  as  the  light  in  the  sun,  or  as  the 
man  in  the  moon,  even  at  noon  day;  it  is 
indeed  a  pumpkin-plot,  which,  just  as  it  was 
mellow,  we  have  gathered,  and  now  we  have 
gathered  it,  prepared  and  dressed  it,  shall  we 
throw  it  like  a  pickled  cucumber  out  at  the 
window?  no:  that  it  is  not  only  a  bloody, 
horrid,  execrable,  damnable  and  audacious 
plot,  but  it  is,  as  I  may  so  say,  a  saucy  plot: 
and  we  all  know,  most  reverend  fathers,  that 
what  is  sauce  for  a  goose  is  sauce  for  a 
gander:  therefore,  I  say,  as  those  bloodthirsty 
ganders  of  the  conspiracy  would  have  de- 
stroyed us  geese  of  the  Senate,  let  us  make 
haste  to  destroy  them,  so  I  humbly  move  for 
hanging  " — ha !  hurry  durry — I  think  this  will 
do;  though  I  was  something  out,  at  first, 
about  the  sun  and  the  cucumber. 

Enter  AQUILINA. 

A  quit.     Good-morrow,  senator. 

Anto.  Nacky,  my  dear  Nacky,  morrow, 
Nacky,  *od  I  am  very  brisk,  very  merry, 
very  pert,  very  jovial— ha-a-a-a-a— kiss  me, 
Nacky;  how  dost  thou  do,  my  little  Tory, 
rory  strumpet,  kiss  me,  I  say,  hussy,  kiss 
le. 

Aquil.  Kiss  me,  Nacky,  hang  you,  sir, 
coxcomb,  hang  you,  sir. 

Anto.  Hayty,  tayty,  is  it  so  indeed,  with 
all  my  heart,  faith — hey  then  up  go  we,  faith — 
hey  then  up  go  we,  dum  dum  derum  dump. 

[Sings. 

Aquil.     Signior. 


110 


VENICE  PRESERVED 


ACT  V,  Sc.  II. 


.•into.     Madonna. 

Aquil.  Do  you  intend  to  die  in  your 
bed? 

Anto.  About  threescore  years  hence,  much 
may  be  done,  my  dear. 

Aquil.     You'll  be  hanged,  signior. 

Anto.  Hanged,  sweetheart,  prithee  be 
quiet,  hanged  quotha,  that's  a  merry  conceit, 
with  all  my  heart,  why  thou  jokest,  Nacky, 
thou  art  given  to  joking,  I'll  swear;  well,  I 
protest,  Nacky,  nay,  I  must  protest,  and  will 
protest  that  I  love  joking  dearly,  man.  And  I 
love  thee  for  joking,  and  I'll  kiss  thee  for 
joking,  and  towse  thee  for  joking,  and  'od,  I 
have  a  devilish  mind  to  take  thee  aside  about 
that  business  for  joking  too,  'od  I  have,  and 
Hey  then  up  go  we,  dum  dum  derum  dump. 

[Sings. 

Aquil.   [draws  a  dagger].    See  you  this,  sir? 

Anto.  O  laud,  a  dagger!  O  laud!  it  is 
naturally  my  aversion,  I  cannot  endure  the 
sight  on't,  hide  it  for  Heaven's  sake,  I  can- 
not look  that  way  till  it  be  gone — hide  it, 
hide  it,  oh,  oh,  hide  it! 

Aquil.     Yes,  in   your  heart   I'll  hide  it. 

Anto.  My  heart;  what,  hide  a  dagger  in 
my  heart's  blood? 

Aquil.     Yes,  in  thy  heart,  thy  throat,  thou 

pampered  devil; 
Thou  hast  helped  to  spoil  my  peace,  and  I'll 

have  vengeance 

On  thy  curst  life,  for  all  the  bloody  Senate, 
The  perjured  faithless  Senate:  where's  my 

lord, 

My  happiness,  ray  love,  my  god,  my  hero, 
Doomed  by  thy  accursed  tongue,  amongst 

the  rest, 
To  a  shameful  wrack?    By  all  the  rage  that's 

in  me 
I'll   be  whole  years  in  murthering  thee. 

Anto.  Why,    Nacky, 

wherefore  so  passionate?  what  have  I  done? 
what's  the  matter,  my  dear  Nacky?  am  not 
I  thy  love,  thy  happiness,  thy  lord,  thy  hero, 
thy  senator,  and  everything  in  the  world, 
Nacky? 

Aquil.     Thou!    think'st   thou,    thou    art    fit 

to  meet  my  joys; 

To  bear  the  eager  clasps  of  my  embraces? 
Give  me  my  Pierre,  or 

Anto.     Why,     he's     to     be     hanged,     little 

Nacky, 
Trussed  up  for  treason,  and  so  forth,  child. 

Aquil.     Thou   liest:    stop    down    thy    throat 

that  hellish  sentence, 
Or   'tis   thy   last:   swear   that  my  love   shall 

live, 
Or  thou  art  dead. 

Anto.  Ah-h-h-h. 

Aquil.  Swear  to  recall  his  doom, 

Swear  at  my  feet,  and  tremble  at  my  fury. 

Anto.     I  do.    Now  if  she  would  but  kick  a 

little  bit,  one  kick  now. 
Ah-h-h-h. 


Swear,'  or 

I  do,  by  these  dear  fragrant 


Aquil. 
Anto. 

foots 
And  little  toes  sweet  as,  e-e-e-e  my  Nacky, 

Nacky,    Nacky. 
Aquil.     How! 
Anto.     Nothing  but  untie   thy   shoe-string 

a  little,  faith  and  troth, 

That's    all,    that's    all,    as    I    hope    to    live, 
Nacky,  that's  all. 

Aquil.     Nay,  then 

Anto.     Hold,  hold,  thy  love,   thy  lord,  thy 

hero 
Shall   be  preserved   and   safe. 

Aquil.  Or  may  this  poniard 

Rust  in  thy  heart. 

Anto.  With  all  my  soul. 

Aquil.  Farewell 

[Exit    AQUILINA. 

Anto.  Adieu.  Why,  what  a  bloody-minded, 
inveterate,  termagant  strumpet  have  I  been 
plagued  with!  Oh-h-h  yet  more!  nay  then  I 
die,  I  die — I  am  dead  already. 

[Stretches  himself  out. 

SCENE  II 
Enter  JAFFEIR. 
Jaff.     Final    destruction    seize    OR    all    the 

world: 
Bend  down,  ye  Heavens,  and  shutting  round 

this   earth, 

Crush  the  vile  globe  into  its  first  confusion; 
Scorch     it,     with     elemental    flames,     to     one 

curst  cinder, 

And  all  us  little  creepers  in't,  called  men, 
Burn,   burn  to   nothing:  but   let  Venice  burn 
Hotter  than  all  the  rest:  here  kindle  hell 
Ne'er  to  extinguish,  and  let   souls  hereafter 
Groan    here,    in    all   those    pains    which   mine 

feels  now! 

Enter  BELVIDERA. 

Belv.   [meeting  him].     My  life 

Jaff.  [turning  from  her\.     My  plague 

Belv.  Nay  then  I  see  my  ruin, 

If  I  must  die! 

Jaff.  No,   Death's    this   day   too   busy, 

Thy   father's   ill-timed   mercy  came   too   late. 
I  .thank  thee  for  thy  labors  though  and  him 

too, 

But  all  my  poor  betrayed  unhappy  friends 
Have   summons    to   prepare   for   fate's   black 

hour; 
And  yet  I  live. 

Belv.  Then  be  the  next  my  doom. 

I    see    thou'st    passed    my    sentence    in    thy 

heart, 

And  I'll  no  longer  weep  or  plead  against  it, 
But    with   the   humblest,    most   obedient    pa- 
tience 
Meet    thy    dear   hands,    and    kiss    'em   when 

they  wound  me; 
Indeed  I'm  willing,  but  I  beg  thee  do  it 


111 


ACT  V,  Sc.  II. 


VENICE  PRESERVED 


With   some   remorse,   and  where    thou   giv'st 

the  blow, 

View  me  with   eyes  of  a  relenting  love, 
And  show  me  pity,  for  'twill  sweeten  justice. 
/.:.v".     Show   pity    to    thee? 
Beh.  Yes,    and   when   thy    hands, 

Charged  with  my  fate,  come  trembling  to  the 

deed, 
As  thou  hast  done  a  thousand  thousand  dear 

times, 
To   this   poor  breast,    when   kinder   rage   has 

brought   thee, 
When    our    stinged    hearts    have    leaped    to 

meet  each  other, 

And  melting  kisses  sealed  our  lips  together, 
When    joys    have    left    me    gasping    in    thy 

arms, 
So  let  my  death  come  now,  and  I'll  not  shrink 

from't. 
Jaff.     Nay,     Belvidera,     do     not     fear     my 

cruelty, 
Nor  let   the    thoughts   of    death   perplex   thy 

fancy, 

But  answer  me  to  what   I  shall  demand 
With  a  firm  temper  and  unshaken  spirit. 

Belv.     I  will  when  I've   done  weeping 

Jaff.  Fie,  no  more  on't — 

How   long   is't   since    the    miserable   day 

We  wedded  first 

Belv.  Oh-h-h! 

Jaff.  Nay,  keep  in  thy  tears 

Lest  they  unman  me  too. 


Belv. 


Heaven  knows  I  cannot; 


The  words  you  utter  sound  so  very  sadly 
These  streams  will  follow 

Jaff.  Come,  I'll  kiss  'em  dry,  then. 

Bch-.     But  was't  a  miserable  day? 

Jaff.  A  curst  one. 

Beh'.     I   thought  it   otherwise,   and  you've 

oft  sworn 

In    the    transporting    hours   of   warmest    love 
When    sure     you     spoke    the     truth,     you've 
sworn  you  blessed   it. 

Jaff.     'Twas   a  rash  oath. 

Belv.  Then   why  am   I  not  curst  too? 

Jaff.     No,   Belvidera;  by   the  eternal   truth, 
I  dote  with  too  much  fondness. 

Belv.  Still  so  kind? 

Still  then  do  you  love  me? 

Jaff.  Nature,  in  her  workings, 

Inclines  not  with  more  ardor  to  creation, 
Than  I  do  now  towards  thee:  man  ne'er  was 

blessed, 
Since  the  first  pair  first  met,  as  I  have  been. 

Belv.     Then  sure  you  will  not  curse  me. 

Jaff.  No,    I'll   bless   thee. 

I  came  on  purpose,  Belvidera,   to  bless  thee. 
Tis    now,    I    think,    three    years    we've    lived 
together. 

Belv.     And  may  no  fatal  minute  ever  part 

us, 

Till,  reverend  grown,  for  age  and  love,  we  go 
Down  to  one  grave,  as  our  last  bed,  together, 
There  sleep  in  peace  till  an  eternal  morning. 


or    have    my    eyes 


Jaff.    [sighing].     When   will    that  be? 

Belv.  I  hope  long  ages  hence. 

Jaff.     Have  I  not  hitherto  (I  beg  thee  tell 

me 
Thy    very    fears)    used    thee    with    tenderest 

love? 
Did   e'er   my    soul   rise   up   in   wrath   against 

thee? 

Did  e'er  I  frown  when  Belvidera  smiled, 
Or,  by  the  least  unfriendly  word,  betray 
A  bating  passion?  have  I  ever  wronged  thee? 
Beh:     No. 
Jaff.    Has    my    heart, 

e'er  wandered 
To  any  other  woman? 

Belv.  Never,     never — 

I   were  the  worst  of  false  ones  should   I  ac- 
cuse thee; 

I  own  I've  been  too  happy,  blessed  above 
My  sex's  charter. 

Jaff.     Did  I  not  say  I  came  to  bless  thee? 
Belv.     Yes. 

Jaff.          Then  hear  me,  bounteous  Heaven! 
Pour  down  your  blessings  on  this  beauteous 

head, 

Where  everlasting  sweets  are  always  spring- 
ing. 

With  a  continual   giving  hand,  let  peace, 
Honor,   and   safety   always   hover   round   her: 
Feed  her  with  plenty,  let  her  eyes  ne'er  see 
A  sight  of  sorrow,  nor  her  heart  know  mourn- 
ing: 
Crown  all  her  days  with  joy,  her  nights  with 

rest, 
Harmless    as    her    own    thoughts,    and    prop 

her  virtue, 

To  bear  the  loss  of  one  that  too  much  loved, 
And  comfort  her  with  patience  in  our  part- 
ing. 

Belv.     How,  parting!  parting! 
Jaff.  Yes,  for   ever  parting. 

I  have  sworn,  Belvidera,  by  yon  Heaven, 
That  best  can  tell  how  much  I  lose  to  leave 

thee, 
We  part  this  hour  for  ever. 

Belv.  Oh,    call    back 

Your  cruel  blessings,  stay  with  me  and  curse 

me! 

Jaff.     No,  'tis  resolved. 

Belv.  Then  hear  me  too,  just  Heaven ! 

Pour    down    your    curses    on    this    wretched 

head 

With    never-ceasing    vengeance:    let    despair, 
Danger  or  infamy,  nay,  all  surround  me; 
Starve  me  with  wan  tings;  let  my  eyes  ne'er 

see 
A    sight    of    comfort,    nor    my    heart    know 

peace, 
But  dash  my  days  with  sorrow,   nights   with 

horrors 
Wild  as  my  own  thoughts  now,  and  let  loose 

fury 

To  make  me  mad  enough  for  what  I  lose, 
If  I  must  lose  him.     If  I  must!  I  will  not. — 


112 


ACT  V,  Sc.  III. 


O  turn  and  hear  me! 

Jaff.  Now  hold,  heart,  or  never! 

Belv.     By  all   the   tender  days   we've   lived 

together, 
By  all   our   charming    nights,    and  joys   that 

crowned    'em: 

Pity  my  sad  condition,  speak,  but  speak. 
Jaff.     Oh-h-h ! 


Belv. 


By  these  arms  that  now  cling 


round  thy  neck: 
By  this  dear  kiss  and  by  ten  thousand  more, 

By  these  poor  streaming  eyes 

Jaff.  Murther!  unhold  me: 

[Draws  his  dagger. 

By  the   immortal   destiny   that   doomed   me 
To     this     curst    minute,     I'll     not     live    one 
longer. 

Resolve   to   let  me   go  or   see  me   fall 

Belv.     Hold,  sir,  be  patient. 
Jaff.  Hark,    the    dismal    bell 

[Passing  bell  tolls. 
Tolls   out   for   death;   I   must   attend  its   call 

too, 
For  my  poor  friend,  my  dying  Pierre  expects 

me: 

He  sent  a  message  to  require  I'd  see  him 
Before  he  died,  and  take  his  last  forgiveness. 
Farewell  for  ever. 

[Going  out  looks  back  at  her. 
Belv.  Leave  thy  dagger  with  me. 

Bequeath    me    something. — Not    one    kiss    at 
parting  ? 

0  my  poor  heart,  when  wilt  thou  break? 
Jaff.  Yet  stay, 

We  have  a  child,  as  yet  a  tender  infant. 
Be  a   kind   mother  to  him   when   I  am   gone: 
Breed  him  in  virtue  and  the  paths  of  honor, 
But   let  him   never  know   his   father's   story: 

1  charge    thee   guard   him   from    the   wrongs 

my  fate 

May   do   his   future  fortune   or   his   name. 
Now — nearer   yet —     [Approaching   each   other. 
O    that   my    arms    were    riveted 
Thus  round  thee  ever!    But  my  friends,  my 

oath! 
This  and  no  more.  [Kisses  her. 

Belv.  Another,    sure   anotEer, 

For  that  poor  little  one  you've  ta'en  care  of, 
I'll  give  't  him  truly. 

Jaff.  So,   now    farewell. 

Belv.  For  ever? 

Jaff.     Heaven    knows    for    ever;     all     good 
angels   guard   thee.  [Exit. 

Belv.     All   ill  ones   sure  had  charge   of  me 

this  moment. 
Curst    be    my    days,    and    doubly    curst    my 

nights, 
Which    I   must    now    mourn    out   in    widowed 

tears ; 

Blasted  be  every  herb  and  fruit  and  tree; 
Curst   be  the  rain   that  falls   upon  the   earth. 
And   may   the   general   curse  reach   man   and 

beast; 
Oh,  give  me  daggers,  fire  or  water! 


How    I    could    bleed,    how    burn,    how    drown, 

the  waves 
Huzzing    and    booming    round    my     sinking 

head, 

Till  I  descended  to  the  peaceful  bottom! 
Oh,  there's  all  quiet,  here  all  rage  and  fury: 
The    air's    too    thin,    and    pierces    my    weak 

brain: 

I  long  for  thick  substantial  sleep:  hell,  hell. 
Burst  from  the  centre,  rage  and  roar  aloud, 
If  thou  art  half  so  hot,  so  mad  as  I  am. 

Enter  PRIULI   and  Servants. 

Who's  there? 

Priu.  Run,   seize  and   bring   her   safely 

home.  [They  seize  her. 

Guard    her    as    you    would    life:    alas,    poor 

creature ! 

Belv.     What?  to  my  husband  then  conduct 
me  quickly. 

Are    all    things    ready?    shall    we    die    most 
gloriously  ? 

Say  not  a  word  of  this  to  my  old  father. 

Murmuring  streams,  soft  shades,  and  spring- 
ing flowers, 

Lutes,    laurels,    seas    of    milk,    and    ships    of 
amber.  [Exit. 


SCENE  III 

Scene  opening  discovers  a  Scaffold  and  a 
Wheel  prepared  for  the  executing  of 
PIERRE,  then  enter  other  Officers,  PIERRE 
and  Guards,  a  Friar,  Executioner,  and  a 
great  rabble. 

Offic.     Room,     room     there — stand    all    by, 

make    room    for    the    prisoner. 
Pierr.     My  friend  not  come  yet? 
Father.  Why  are  you  so  obstinate? 

Pierr.     Why    you    so    troublesome,    that    a 

poor  wretch 
Can't   die   in  peace, 

But  you,  like  ravens,  will  be  croaking  round 
him? 

Path.     Yet,  Heaven 

Pierr.  I   tell  thee  Heaven  and  I  are 

friends. 
I    ne'er    broke    peace   with    it    yet,    by    cruel 

murthers, 

Rapine  or  perjury,  or  vile  deceiving, 
But  lived  in  moral   justice  towards   all  men, 
Nor  am   a  foe  to  the   most  strong  believers, 
Howe'er  my  own  short-sighted  faith  confine 
me. 

Path.     But  an  all-seeing  Judge 

Pierr.  You   say   my    conscience 

Must    be    mine    accuser:    I've    searched    that 

conscience, 
And    find    no    records    there    of    crimes    that 

scare  me. 

Path.     'Tis  strange  you  should  want  faith. 

Pierr.  You  want  to  lead 

My   reason    blindfold,    like   a    hampered    lion, 


113 


ACT  V,  Sc.  III. 


VENICE  PRESERVED 


Checked  of  its  nobler  vigor;  then,  when 
baited 

Down   to  obedient   lameness,   make   it   couch, 

And  show  strange  tricks,  which  you  call 
signs  of  faith. 

So  silly  souls  are  gulled  and  you  get  money. 

Away,  no  more!  Captain,  I  would  here- 
after • 

This   fellow   write   no   lies   of   my   conversion, 

Because  he  has  crept  upon  my  troubled 
hour*. 

Enter  JAFFEIR. 

Jaff.     Hold:       eyes,       be       dry!         Heart, 

strengthen  me   to  bear 

This  hideous  sight,   and  humble  me,   to  take 
The   last    forgiveness   of  a   dying   friend, 
Betrayed   by   my   vile  falsehood,   to  his  ruin. 

0  Pierre! 

Pierr.    Yet  nearer. 

Jaff.  «          Crawling    on   my    knees, 

And  prostrate  on  the  earth,  let  me  approach 

thee. 

•  How  shall  I  look  up  to  thy  injured  face, 
That   always   used    to   smile,    with   friendship 

on  me? 

It  darts  an  air  of  so  much  manly  virtue, 
That  VI,    methinks,    look    little    in    thy    sight, 
And  stripes  are  fitter  for  me  than  embraces. 
Pierr.     Dear   to   my    arms,   though    thou'st 
undone  my  fame, 

1  cannot  forget  to  love  thee:  prithee,  Jaffeir, 
Forgive    that    filthy    blow    my    passion    dealt 

thee; 

I  am  now  preparing  for  the  land  of  peace, 
And    fain    would    have    the   charitable    wishes 
Of  all  good  men,  like  thee,  to  bless  my  jour- 
ney. 
Jaff.     Good!      I    am    the    vilest    creature; 

worse  than  e'er 
Suffered    the   shameful   fate    thou'rt   going   to 

taste  of. 

Why  was  I  sent  for  to  be  used  thus  kindly? 
Call,  call  me  villain,  as  I  am,  describe 
The  foul  complexion  of  my  hateful  deeds, 
Lead  me  to  the  rack,  and  stretch  me  in  thy 

stead, 

I've  crimes  enough  to  give  it  its  full  load, 
And    do    it   credit.     Thou    wilt   but   spoil    the 

use   on't, 

And  honest  men  hereafter  bear  its  figure 
About    'em,    as    a    charm     from     treacherous 

friendship. 
Offic.     The  time  grows  short,  your  friends 

are   dead  already. 
Jaff.     Dead! 
Pierr.     Yes,   dead,  Jaffeir;   they've  all   died 

like  men   too, 
Worthy  their  character. 

Jaff.  And   what   must   I    do? 

Pierr.     O  Jaffeir! 

Jaff.  Speak  aloud  thy  burthened  soul 

And  tell  thy  troubles  to  thy  tortured  friend. 


Pierr.     Couldst    thou    yet    be    a    friend,    a 

generous  friend, 

I    might    hope    comfort    from   thy   noble   sor- 
rows. 
Heaven  knows  I  want  a  friend. 

Jaff.  And  I  a  kind   one, 

That  would  not  thus  scorn  my  repenting  vir- 
tue, 
Or  think  when  he's  to  die,  my  thoughts  are 

idle. 

Pierr.     No!  live,  I  charge  thee,  Jaffeir. 
Jaff.  Yes,   I'll  live, 

But  it  shall  be  to  see  thy  fall  revenged 
At   such  a  rate,  as   Venice   long   shall  groan 

for. 

Pierr.     Wilt  thou? 
Jaff.  I   will,    by   Heav'n. 

Pierr.  -    Then    still    thou'rt    noble, 

And    I    forgive    thee,    oh— yet — shall    I    trust 

thee? 

Jaff.     No:    I've   been  false  already. 
Pierr.  Dost  thou   love   me? 

Jaff.     Rip    up    my    heart,    and    satisfy    thy 

doubtings. 

Pierr.   [he  weeps].    Curse  on  this  weakness. 
/(///'.  Tears!     Amazement!     Tears! 

I  never  saw  thee  melted  thus  before, 
And  know  there's  something  laboring  in  thy 

bosom 
That  must  have  vent:   though   I'm  a  villain, 

tell  me. 
Pierr.   [pointing  to  the   wheel].     Seest  thou 

that  engine? 
Jaff.     Why  ? 
Pierr.     Is't    fit    a    soldier,    who    has    lived 

with  honor, 
Fought  nations'  quarrels,  and  been  crowned 

with   conquest, 

Be  exposed   a  common  carcase  on  a   wheel  ? 
Jaff.     Ha! 

Pierr.  Speak!    is't   fitting? 

Jaff.  Fitting  ? 

Pierr.  Yes,    is't   fitting? 

Jaff.     What's  to  be  done? 
Pierr.  I'd   have  thee   undertake 

Something  that's  noble,  to  preserve  my  mem- 
ory 

From  the  disgrace  that's  ready  to  attaint  it. 
Offic.     The  day  grows  late,  sir. 
Pierr.  I'll   make    haste!     O   Jaffeir, 

Though    thou'st    betrayed    me,    do    me    some 

way   justice. 
Jaff.     No  more  of  that:  thy  wishes  shall  be 

satisfied. 
I   have  a  wife,  and  she  shall  bleed,  my  child 

too 
Yield  up  his  little  throat,  and  all  to  appease 

thee [Going  away,  PIERRE  holds  him. 

Pierr.     No — this — no  more! 

f  [He  whispers  JAFFEIR. 

Jaff.  Ha!  is't  then  so? 

Pierr.  Most  certainly. 

Jaff.     I'll  do't. 
Pierr.  Remember. 


114 


VENICE'  PRESERVED 


ACT  V,  Sc.  IV. 


Offic.  Sir. 

Pierr.  Come,   now  I'm   ready. 

[He  and  JAFFEIR  ascend  the  scaffold. 
Captain,  you  should  be  a  gentleman  of  honor. 
Keep  off  the  rabble,  that  I  may  have  room 
To  entertain  my  fate  and  die  with  decency. 
Come! 

[Takes  off  his  gown.     Executioner  prepares 

to  bind  him. 
Path.     Son ! 

Pierr.  Hence,    tempter. 

Offic.  Stand    off,    priest. 

Pierr.     I  thank  you,  sir. 

You'll   think   on't. 
[To  JAFFEIR. 

Jaff.     'Twon't  grow  stale  before  to-morrow. 
Pierr.     Now,     Jaffeir!     now     I     am     going. 
Now; —       [Executioner   having  bound   him. 
Jaff.     Have   at   thee, 

Thou  honest  heart,  then — here —     [Stabs  him. 

And  this  is  well  too.          [Then  stabs  himself. 

Path.  Damnable    deed ! 

Pierr.     Now  thou  hast  indeed  been  faithful. 

This     was     done    nobly — we've    deceived    the 

Senate. 
Jaff.     Bravely. 

Pierr.          Ha!  ha!  ha!— oh!  oh! [Dies. 

Jaff.  Now,  ye  curst  rulers, 

Thus  of  the  blood  ye've  shed  I  make  libation. 
And  sprinkle  it   mingling:   may   it  rest  upon 

you, 
And   all    your    race:    be    henceforth   peace    a 

stranger 
Within    your  walls;   let   plagues   and   famine 

waste 

Your  generations— O  poor  Belvidera! 
Sir,  I  have  a  wife,  bear  this  in  safety  to  her, — 
A  token  that  with  my  dying  breath  I  blessed 

her, 
And  the  dear  little  infant  left  behind  me. 

I'm  sick — I'm  quiet [JAFFEIR  dies. 

OfKc.  Bear  this  news   to  the  Senate, 

And    guard   their    bodies   till    there's   farther 

order: 
Heaven  grant  I  die  so  well! 

[Scene   shuts  upon    them. 

SCENE   IV 

Soft    music.      Enter   BELVIDERA   distracted,    led 
by  two  of  her  Women,  PRIULI  and  Servants. 

Priu.     Strengthen  her  heart  with  patience, 

pitying  Heaven. 

Belv.     Come,  come,  come,  come,  come,  nay, 
come   to   bed! 

Prithee,  my  love.    The  winds !  hark  how  they 
whistle ! 

And    the    rain    beats:    oh,    how    the    weather 
shrinks  me! 

You  are  angry  now,  who  cares  ?  pish,  no  in- 
deed. 

Choose    then;    I    say    you    shall    not    go,    you 
shall  not; 


Whip  your  ill  nature;  get  you  gone  then!  oh, 

[JAFFEIR'S  Ghost  rises. 

Are    you    return'd?     See,    father,    here    he's 

come  again! 
Am   I   to  blame  to  love   him?     O  thou  dear 

one!  [Ghost   sinks. 

Why  do  you   fly  me?     Are  you  angry   still, 

then? 
Jaffeir!  where  art  thou?    Father,  why  do  you 

do   thus? 
Stand  off,  don't  hide  him  from  me.    He's  here 

somewhere. 
Stand  off,   I  say!  what,   gone?  remember  it, 

tyrant ! 

I  may  revenge  myself  for  this  trick  one  day. 
I'll  do't— I'll  do't!  Renault's  a  nasty  fellow. 
Hang  him,  hang  him,  hang  him. 

Enter  Officer  and  others. 

Priu.     News,  what  news? 

[Officer   whispers   PRIULI. 
OfKc.  Most  sad,  sir. 

Jaffeir,  upon  the  scaffold,  to  prevent 
A   shameful   death,    stabbed  Pierre,  and  next 

himself: 
Both  fell  together. 

[The  ghosts   of  JAFFEIR   and    PIERRE   rise 

together  both   bloody. 
Priu.  Daughter. 

Belv.  Ha,  look  there! 

My    husband    bloody,    and    his    friend    too! 

Murther! 

Who  has  done  this?    Speak  to  me,  thou  sad 

vision,  [Ghosts  sink. 

On    these    poor    trembling    knees    I    beg    it. 

Vanished ! 
Here   they  went  down;  oh,  I'll  dig,   dig   the 

den   up. 
You    shan't    delude    me    thus.      Ho,    Jaffeir, 

Jaffeir, 
Peep   up   and   give   me   but   a   look.     I    have 

him! 
I've   got   him,   father:    oh,    how   I'll    smuggle 

him! 
My   love!   my   dear!  my   blessing!   help   me, 

help   me ! 

They've    hold   on    me,    and    drag    me    to    the 
bottom. 

Nay — now  they  pull   so  hard — farewell 

[She  dies. 

Maid.  She's  dead, 

Breathless  and  dead. 

Priu.      Then  guard  me  from  the  sight  on't; 
Lead  me  into  some  place  that's  fit  for  mourn- 
ing; 
Where   the  free  air,   light,   and   the   cheerful 

sun 

May  never  enter:  hang  it  round  with  black: 
Set  up  one  taper  that  may  last  a  day 
As  long  as  I've  to  live:  and  there  all  leave 

me. 

Sparing  no  tears  when  you  this  tale  relate, 
But  bid  all  cruel  fathers  dread  my  fate. 

[Curtain   falls.     Exeunt   omnes. 


115 


EPILOGUE 


VENICE  PRESERVED 


EPILOGUE 

The  text  is  done,  and  now  for  application, 
And  when   that's  ended,   pass  your  approba- 
tion. 

Though  the  conspiracy's  prevented  here, 
Me  thinks  I  see  another  hatching  there; 
And  there's  a  certain  faction  fain  would 

sway, 
If  they  had  strength  enough,  and  damn   this 

play, 

But   this  the  author  bade  me  boldly  say: 
If  any  take  his  plainness  in  ill  part, 
He's  glad  on't  from  the  bottom  of  his  heart; 
Poets  in  honor  of  the  truth  should  write, 
With  the  same  spirit  brave  men  for  it  fight; 
And    though    against    him    causeless    hatreds 

rise, 

And  daily  where  he  goes  of  late,  he  spies 
The   scowls  of   sullen  and  revengeful  eyes; 
Tis  what  he  knows  with  much  contempt  to 

bear, 

And  serves  a  cause  too  good  to  let  him  fear: 
He    fears    no  poison   from    an   incensed   drab, 
No    ruffian's    five-foot    sword,    nor    rascal's 
•tab; 


Nor  any   other   snares   of  mischief  laid, 
Not  a  Rose-alley  cudgel-ambuscade, 
From  any  private  cause  where  malice  reigns, 
Or    general    pique    all    blockheads     have    to 

brains: 
Nothing  shall  daunt  his  pen  when  truth  does 

call, 

No,  not  the  picture-mangier  at  Guildhall. 
The  rebel  tribe,  of  which  that  vermin's  one, 
Have  now  set  forward  and  their  course  begun; 
And  while  that  Prince's  figure  they  deface, 

As  they  before  had  massacred  his  name, 
Durst   their  base  fears   but  look   him   in   the 

face, 
They'd  use  his  person  as   they've  used   his 

fame; 

A  face,  in  which  such  lineaments  they  read 
Of  that  great  martyr's,  whose  rich  blood 

they  shed, 

That   their   rebellious   hate   they   still   retain, 
And  in  his  son  would  murther  him  again. 
With  indignation  then,  let  each  brave  heart 
Rouse  and  unite  to  take  his  injured  part; 
Till  royal  love  and   goodness  call   him  home, 
And  songs  of  triumph  meet  him  as  he  come; 
Till  Heaven  his  honor  and  our  peace  restore. 
And  villains  never  wrong  his  virtue  more. 


116 


WILLIAM    CONGREVE 


THE  WAY  OF  THE  WORLD 


WILLIAM  CONGREVE  was  born  in  the  year  in  which  The  Conquest  of 
Granada  was  finished  (1670),  and  in  that  in  which  Dryden  died  Congreve 
wrote  his  last  play  (1700).  When  Dryden  was  thirty  years  old,  he  had  not 
more  than  entered  upon  his  literary  career  with  two  poems  of  no  great 
promise,  one  in  praise  of  the  dead  Cromwell,  the  other  judiciously  in  wel- 
come to  the  restored  Charles.  When  Congreve  laid  down  his  pen,  he  had 
written  four  comedies,  rising  to  extraordinary  brilliancy  in  The  Way  of  the 
World,  and  one  tragedy,  of  which  it  can  at  least  be  said  that  it  held  the 
boards  for  nearly  a  century.  Dryden  made  the  writing  of  literature  in  all 
its  current  forms  a  profession ;  Congreve  wished  to  live  and  be  known  as  a 
gentleman  rather  than  to  be  praised  as  an  author. 

Though  born  in  England,  Congreve  spent  his  boyhood  days  in  Ireland, 
whither  his  father  had  been  sent  shortly  after  the  boy's  birth  to  command 
the  garrison  at  Youghal.  About  1681  William  went  to  Kilkenny  School, 
called  the  Eton  of  Ireland,  and  in  1685  he  entered  Trinity  College,  Dublin ; 
at  both  places  Swift,  though  three  years  ahead  of  Congreve,  was  also  a 
student.  After  the  Revolution  he  crossed  to  England  and  in  1691  he  was  a 
law  student  at  the  Inner  Temple.  The  next  year  he  had  abandoned  all 
thoughts  of  law  and  had  become  instead  the  protege  of  Dryden,  was  hailed 
as  the  coming  poet,  and  was  associated  with  prominent  men  of  letters  in  a 
translation  of  Persius  and  Juvenal.  In  January,  1693,  his  first  play,  The 
Old  Bachelor,  written  when  he  was  twenty-one,  was  produced  at  Drury  Lane. 
The  piece  had  been  revised  and  polished  by  Southerne  and  Dryden,  it  was 
acted  by  Betterton  and  the  fascinating  Mrs.  Bracegirdle,  and  with  its  won- 
derful dialogue  that  surpassed  anything  known  to  the  contemporary  stage  it 
was  an  immediate  and  lasting  success.  Thus  encouraged,  Congreve  in  the 
November  of  the  same  year  was  ready  with  another  play,  The  Double  Dealer, 
which  did  not  meet  with  quite  so  cordial  a  reception  as  the  first,  though 
in  many  respects  it  is  superior.  The  anger  he  all  too  plainly  showed  at  the 
"impotent  objections"  of  his  "illiterate  critics"  was  greatly  allayed  by 
Dryden's  magnificent  praise  in  his  "  Commendatory  Verses  "  prefixed  to  the 
published  work : — 

"  Heaven  that  but  once  was  prodigal  before, 
To  Shakespeare  gave  as  much;  she  could  not  give  him  more." 

117 


THE  WAY  OF  THE  WORLD 


When  Betterton  with  his  fellow-actors  left  the  patent  house,  the  Theatre 
Royal,  he  obtained  a  special  license  from  the  king  and  built  the  New  Theatre 
in  Lincoln's  Inn  Fields.  This  theatre  was  opened  in  Easter  week,  1695,  with 
Congreve's  next  play,  Love  for  Love,  and  the  performance  was  an  unqualified 
success.  So  pleased  .was  Congreve  that  he  entered  into  a  contract  to  deliver 
a  new  play  a  year,  an  agreement,  which  like  Dryden  in  a  similar  case,  he 
failed  to  keep.  Two  years  later  he  furnished  the  company  with  his  only 
tragedy,  The  Mourning  Bride,  a  play  of  Websterian  gloom  without  the  Web- 
sterian  power.  Dr.  Johnson  gave  it  a  kind  of  spurious  immortality  by  char- 
acterizing the  description  of  the  temple  in  Act  II  as  the  "finest  poetical 
passage  he  had  ever  read,"  of  which  Hazlitt  justly  remarks  that  Johnson 
"could  have  done  nearly  as  well  himself  for  a  single  passage,  in  the  same 
vein  of  moralizing  and  sentimental  description."  The  next  year  (1698)  the 
Puritan  conscience  after  nearly  forty  years  of  enforced  silence  found  vig- 
orous expression  in  the -strident  tones  of  Jeremy  Collier's  Short  View  of  the 
Profaneness  and  Immorality  of  the  English  Stage.  After  some  delay  Con- 
greve replied  with  his  unfortunate  and  ineffectual  Amendments  on  Mr.  Col- 
lier's False  and  Imperfect  Citations.  Even  in  the  opinion  of  the  friends  of 
Congreve  and  the  stage  the  parson  had  the  better  of  the  controversy.  In 
1700  he  wrote  his  last  and  best  comedy,  The  Way  of  the  World,  which  was 
freer  from  reproach  on  the  score  of  morals  than  the  earlier  plays,  though 
none  the  less  a  just  reflection  of  the  times  in  which  he  lived.  The  reception 
of  the  play  was  not  favorable,  and  through  the  remaining  twenty-nine  years 
of  his  life  Congreve  did  not  again  risk  public  disapproval  by  writing  any- 
thing for  the  theatre.  He  lived  the  life  of  one  of  his  own  gay  heroes  with 
London  as  his  stage.  He  was  made  comfortable  by  government  offices,  that 
of  commissioner  for  licensing  hackney  coaches  till  1707 — an  employment 
only  remotely  suggestive  of  Pegasus  and  poetry, — commissioner  of  wine 
licenses  from  1705  to  1714,  secretary  for  Jamaica  from  1714  to  the  end,  so 
that  in  his  later  days  his  income  amounted  to  £1200,  a  goodly  sum  for  an 
old  bachelor.  He  was  a  friend  of  the  great  in  the  land,  Swift,  Addison, 
Steele,  Gay,  Pope,  and  Arbuthnot,  and  achieved  the  supreme  distinction  of 
having  Pope's  Iliad  dedicated  to  him.  He  was  visited  by  Voltaire  and  be- 
came the  chosen  friend  of  Henrietta,  Duchess  of  Maryborough,  the  daughter 
of  the  great  duke,  seemingly  preferring  her  to  the  far  more  admirable 
Mrs.  Bracegirdle.  A  week  after  his  death  on  January  19,  1729,  he  was 
buried  in  Westminster  Abbey. 

As  already  noted,  The  Way  of  the  World  was  not  a  success  when  first 
performed.     Steele  in  his  "  Commendatory  Verses  "  prefixed  to  the  published 
work  generously  ascribes  the  cause  to  the  dull  minds  of  the  audience: 
"  No  sense  of  wit  when  dull  spectators  know 
But  in  distorted  gesture,   farce,  and  show ; 
How  could,  great  author,  your  aspiring  mind 
Dare  to  write  only  to  the  few  refined?" 
118 


THE  WAY  OF  THE  WORLD 


It  is  usually  unwise  to  blame  the  rude  spectators  for  the  failure  of  a  play, 
for  its  dramatic  worth  depends  in  large,  measure  upon  its  direct  appeal  to 
the  groundlings  as  well  as  to  the  judicious.  It  is  accordingly  not  at  all 
difficult  for  the  modern  reader,  as  Mr.  Archer  has  pointed  out,  to  see  that 
this  play  might  fail  on  its  first  performances ;  the  comedy  is  by  no  means  easy 
of  comprehension  even  on  reading;  it  is  only  when  reread  that  it  is  recog- 
nized as  one  of  the  rarest  productions  of  the  comic  spirit  in  our  literature. 

There  are  several  things  that  would  contribute  to  the  mystifying  of  an 
audience  unfamiliar,  with  the  play.  There  is  an  irritating  embarrassment  of 
relationships,  legal  and  illegal,  among  the  dramatis  persona,  husbands  and 
wives,  mistresses  and  ex-mistresses,  lovers  and  followers,  half-brothers  and 
cousins,  mother  and  daughter,  nephew  and  niece,  a  very  real  aunt  and  a 
bogus  uncle.  Only  frequent  reference  to  the  printed  list  will  keep  these 
relationships  straight  in  the  mind  of  the  reader;  the  mere  spectator  would 
be  hopelessly  muddled,  as,  for  instance,  when  Fainall  says  to  Mirabell,  "  he 
[Sir  Wilfull  Witwoud]  is  half-brother  to  this  Witwoud  by  a  former  wife, 
who  was  sister  to  my  Lady  Wishfort,  my  wife's  mother.  If  you  marry 
Millamant,  you  must  call  cousins  too."  Furthermore,  dramatic  unity  is 
lacking  in  the  conduct  of  the  several  actions  and  in  their  relations  to  one 
another.  The  main  design  by  which  Mirabell  expects  to  win  Millamant  and 
which  is  based  on  a  psychological  improbability  is  never  brought  to  an  actual 
test;  it  vanishes  amid  the  storm  which  Lady  Wishfort  raises  between  Acts 
IV  and  V,  when  she  learns  how  she  has  been  duped  by  her  enemy  and  her 
servant.  Early  in  Act  III  it  was  quite  clear  to  the  audience  that  the  design 
would  not  live  through  the  play,  but  it  was  kept  alive  by  the  will  of  the 
dramatist  through  Act  IV  for  the  sake  of  a  genuinely  comic  situation.  When 
now  with  an  utter  disregard  for  dramatic  art  Mirabell's  scheme  is  eventually 
strangled  off  stage,  there  is  nothing  left  for  the  dramatist  but  the  equally 
inartistic  device,  the  creation  of  an  entirely  new  plan  in  Act  V.  No  time 
remains  for  the  development  of  anything  plausible ;  only  the  deus  ex 
machina  is  possible.  Fainall's  blackmailing  plot  is  succeeding,  when  Mirabell 
appears  with  convenient  and  hitherto  unmentioned  "  papers,"  thwarts  the 
villains,  appeases  Lady  Wishfort,  and  wins  Millamant.  It  is  thus  manifest 
that  the  course  of  the  action  is  at  times  confusing  and  purposeless,  and 
that  the  play  might  disappoint  an  audience  concerned  to  follow  the  plots  and 
not  merely  to  luxuriate  in  the  brilliancy  of  dialogue  or  in  the  clear-cut  de- 
lineation of  character. 

It  is  these  two  qualities  along  with  what  Meredith  calls  "  a  certain  suc- 
cinctness of  style  "  that  give  The  Way  of  the  World  its  abiding  fascination. 
To  the  reader  faults  of  construction  seem  a  minor  matter — they  may  be 
recognized  and  then  forgotten — but  the  comic  spirit  that  possessed  England 
during  the  forty  years  following  the  Restoration  may  well  appear  to  him 
to  have  found  in  this  play  its  most  exquisite  embodiment.  This  comic  spirit 
did  not  manifest  itself  so  much  in  the  manipulation  of  intrigue  as  in  the 

119 


THE  WAY  OF  THE  WORLD 


clash  of  wit;  in  fact,  Congreve  was  content  to  let  his  plot  suffer  for  the 
sake  of  bright  and  sparkling  dialogue.  One  has  only  to  run  through  the 
play  to  see  how  few  scenes  really  develop  plot  and  how  many  have  their 
intrinsic  interest  in  brilliant  characterization  and  racy  dialogue.  So  in  Act 
I  there  is  the  clever  showing  up  of  Petulant  and  Witwoud  by  Mirabell.  In 
Act  II  we  have  the  amusing  colloquy  between  Millamant  and  Mirabell,  which 
leaves  the  man  exhausted,  so  swift  and  sure  is  the  lady's  wit.  In  Act  III 
Lady  Wishfort  mercilessly  bullies  Peg  and  is  as  mercilessly  duped  by  Foible; 
Millamant  plays  with  Mrs.  Marwood  as  cheerfully  and  as  remorselessly  as  a 
cat  with  a  mouse;  Sir  Wilfull  turns  the  tables  in  his  blunt  and  ludicrous 
fashion  upon  the  city  fops  to  the  discomfiture  especially  of  his  half-brother, 
who  has  just  entered  upon  the  fop's  estate.  In  Act  IV  Lady  Wishfort  is 
allowed  to.  continue  in  her  delusion  regarding  Sir  Rowland  long  after  the 
plot  demands  that  she  should  be  freed  from  it,  because  it  is  too  good  a  situ- 
ation to  throw  away;  so  also  the  interviews  between  Sir  Wilfull  and  Millamant 
come  to  nothing  in  the  action  but  are  delightful  in  the  clash  of  the  vivacious 
beauty  and  the  bashful  country  knight ;  the  wit  of  the  contract  scene  between 
Mirabell  and  Millamant,  the  cleverest  persons  in  the  play,  flashes  like  a 
rapier  in  the  sunlight;  Sir  Wilfull  drunk  is  even  more  diverting  than  Sir 
Wilfull  sober  and  helps  on  the  plot  just  as  little.  In  Act  V  Lady  Wishfort's 
temper  finds  its  supreme  expression  in  choice  Billingsgate  when  she  de- 
nounces Foible. 

It  is  part  of  Congreve's  art  to  arouse  curiosity  about  his  leading  char- 
acters by  means  of  exposition.  Mirabell  through  Act  I  keeps  referring  to 
Millamant  so  that  the  reader  is  on  the  qui  vive  for  her  appearance,  which 
further  to  arouse  curiosity  is  deferred  to  Act  II.  We  learn  something  of 
Lady  Wishfort  from  Mirabell's  impolite  remarks  and  from  her  important 
position  in  the  "  cabal  nights."  Fainall  acts  as  a  sort  of  announcer  to  Wit- 
woud and  Sir  Wilfull,  and  Witwoud  does  as  much  for  Petulant.  This  in- 
direct vision  affords  an  opportunity  for  the  display  of  more  or  less  malicious 
and  always  piquant  wit,  and  it  also  furnishes  a  starting  point  for  the  com- 
prehension of  a  character.  But  it  is  dull  by  comparison  with  the  perfect  self- 
revelation  of  the  personages  themselves  when  they  appear  on  the  stage. 
There  is  no  mystery,  nothing  inscrutable  in  the  characters  of  a  Congreve 
comedy.  They  appeal  at  once  to  the  intellect  and  they  are  as  clear  cut  as  a 
diamond. 

And  what  great  revealing  power  there  is  in  the  language  they  speak! 
Lady  Wishfort  is  particularly  skilful  in  her  nice  discrimination  in  epithets. 
Whether  she  is  blazing  her  wrath  upon  the  head  of  blundering  Peg,  or  as  a 
mere  tool  in  the  hands  of  "  rare  Foible  "  is  venting  her  spleen  against  Mira- 
bell, her  dearest  foe,  or  indignant  at  her  nephew's  drunken  behavior  is 
hurling  abuse  at  him  while  in  the  same  breath  trying  to  excuse  him  to  Milla- 
mant, whom  she  would  have  him  marry,  or  almost  hysterical  with  rage 
at  the  discovery  of  the  trick  played  upon  her  is  screaming  like  a  fishwife  at 

120 


THE  WAY  OF  THE  WORLD 


the  offending  Foible,  whom  she  "  took  from  washing  of  old  gauze  and 
weaving  of  dead  hair,  with  a  bleak  blue  nose  over  a  chafing  dish  of  starved 
embers,  and  dining  behind  a  traverse  rag,  in  a  shop  no  bigger  than  a  bird- 
cage " — at  all  times  she  has  a  vocabulary  of  vituperation  both  rich  and  rare. 
Very  piquant  without  being  disgusting,  as  they  might  easily  be,  are  the 
scenes  in  which  she  is  angling  for  the  pretended  Sir  Rowland,  wherein  she 
is  presented  as  the  seasoned  coquette  of  fifty-five  years  deliberating  how 
she  may  charm  him  with  "  blushes  and  recomposing  airs  beyond  com- 
parison." Almost  as  choice  in  his  diction  is  the  lubberly  knight,  Sir  Wil- 
full ;  he  can  reduce  to  temporary  silence  the  mincer  of  fine  words,  the  city 
fop;  he  is  bashful  and  painfully  repetitious  when  left  alone  to  propose  to 
Millamant,  but  when  drunk  he  is  splendidly  loquacious  and  breaks  out  into 
joyous  song,  proclaiming  his  Christianity  and  his  orthodoxy,  "  with  a  fig 
for  your  sultan  and  sophy " ;  he  is  duly  apologetic  when  sober  again,  and 
offers  to  make  magnificent  amends,  "  If  I  have  broke  anything  I'll  pay  for  't, 
an'  it  cost  a  pound." 

But  it  is  in  the  character  of  Millamant  that  Congreve  has  surpassed 
himself  and  his  contemporaries.  Perhaps  he  was  inspired  by  the  matchless 
Mrs.  Bracegirdle,  whom  he  greatly  admired  and  for  whom  he  wrote  the 
part.  How  excellently  and  in  what  buoyant  prose  is  the  heroine  introduced 
by  the  enraptured  Mirabell :  "  Here  she  comes,  i'  faith,  full  sail,  with  her  fan 
spread,  and  streamers  out,  and  a  shoal  of  fools  for  tenders/'  In  Meredith's 
words  she  "  is  a  perfect  portrait  of  a  coquette,  both  in  her  resistance  to 
Mirabell  and  the  manner  of  her  surrender,  and  also  in  her  tongue."  (The 
Idea,  of  Comedy,  p.  29.)  The  very  spirit  of  laughter  rings  in  her  words, 
especially  when  she  plays  like  lambent  lightning  around  the  disconcerted  Mrs. 
Marwood,  whose  sinister  threat  brings  out  only  a  demand  for  a  song  to 
keep  up  her  spirits.  Mirabell,  whom  Meredith  calls  "  the  sprightliest  male 
figure  of  English  comedy"  (op.  cit,  p.  23),  is  left  in  a  whirl  after  he  tried 
conclusions  with  her  in  Act  II.  In  reply  to  his  assertion  that  "  beauty  is 
the  lover's  gift,"  she  retorts,  "Lord,  what  is  a  lover  that  it  can  give?  Why, 
one  makes  lovers  as  fast  as  one  pleases,  and  they  live  as  long  as  one  pleases, 
and  they  die  as  soon  as  one  pleases ;  and  then,  if  one  pleases,  one  makes 
more."  Like  Beatrice,  she  speaks  poniards  and  every  word  stabs.  Note  her 
declaration  of  independence  containing  the  terms  on  which  she  will  be  con- 
tent to  "  dwindle  into  a  wife " :  "  Let  us  never  visit  together,  nor  go  to  a 
play  together ;  but  let  us  be  very  strange  and  well-bred :  let  us  be  as  strange 
as  if  we  had  been  married  a  great  while ;  and  as  well-bred  as  if  we  were 
not  married  at  all."  And  after  these  words  of  boisterous  badinage  she  con- 
fesses to  Mrs.  Fainall  very  humbly  and  feelingly,  "Well,  if  Mirabell  should 
not  make  a  good  husband,  I  am  a  lost  thing, — for  I  find  I  love  him  vio- 
lently." She  is  of  Congreve's  characters  about  the  only  one  that  arouses 
any  affection.  She  falls  short  of  Rosalind  and  Beatrice,  who  possess  in  full 
measure  that  surpassing  charm  which  compels  unquestioning  love.  Only  in 

121 


PROLOGUE  THE  WAY  OP  THE  WORLD 

rare  speeches,  as  in  the  one  just  quoted,  do  we  get  a  glimpse  of  that  side 
of  her  nature ;  in  this  side  Congreve  was  not  primarily  interested.  It  is  in 
her  intellectual  keenness  and  her  abounding  vivacity  that  he  showed  his 
consummate  skill  and  in  these  qualities  he  placed  her  not  below  the  clever 
heroines  of  As  You  Like  It  and  Much  Ado  About  Nothing. 

It  is  such  characterization,  such  flash  of  wit,  such  perfection  of  speech 
that  give  The  Way  of  the  World  its  enduring  place  in  English  literature. 
These  qualities  did  not  ensure  it  dramatic  success  in  Congreve's  time  because 
they  were  obscured  by  ineffective  plotting,  but  as  manifestations  of  the  comic 
spirit  they  will  win  among  readers  admiration  for  the  "  aspiring  mind  "  of 
the  author. 


THE  WAY  OF  THE  WORLD 

Audire  est  operse  pretium,  procedere  recte 

Qui  moechos  non  vultis,   [ut  omni  parte  laborent]. 

— HORAT.  Lib.  i.  Sat.  2.    [37-38]. 
[Haec]   metuat,  doti   deprensa. — Ibid.,  Lib.  i.   Sat.  2.    [131]. 

PROLOGUE 

Spoken  by  Mr.  Betterton 

Of  those  few  fools  who  with  ill  stars  are  curst, 

Sure  scribbling  fools,  called  poets,  fare  the  worst: 

For  they're  a  sort  of  fools  which  Fortune  makes, 

And  after  she  has  made  'em  fools,  forsakes. 

With  Nature's  oafs  'tis  quite  a  different  case, 

For  Fortune  favors  all  her  idiot-race. 

In  her  own  nest  the  cuckoo-eggs  we  find, 

O'er  which  she  broods  to  hatch  the  changeling-kind. 

No  portion  for  her  own  she  has  to  spare, 

So  much  she  dotes  on  her  adopted  care. 

Poets  are  bubbles,  by  the  town  drawn  in, 

Suffered  at  first  some  trifling  stakes  to  win; 

But  what  unequal  hazards  do  they  run ! 

Each  time  they  write  they  venture  all  they've  won: 

The  squire  that's  buttered  still,  is  sure  to  be  undone. 

This  author  heretofore  has  found  your  favor; 

But  pleads  no  merit  from  his  past  behavior. 

To  build  on  that  might  prove  a  vain  presumption, 

Should  grants,  to  poets  made,  admit  resumption: 

And  in  Parnassus  he  must  lose  his  seat, 

If  that  be  found  a  forfeited  estate. 

122 


ACT  I,  Sc.  I. 


He  owns  with  toil  he  wrought  the  following  scenes; 
But,  if  they're  naught,  ne'er  spare  him  for  his  pains: 
Damn  him  the  more;  have  no  commiseration 
For  dullness  on  mature  deliberation, 
He  swears  he'll  not  resent  one  hissed-off  scene, 
Nor,  like  those  peevish  wits,  his  play  maintain, 
Who,  to  assert  their  sense,  your  taste  arraign. 
Some  plot  we  think  he  has,  and  some  new  thought; 
Some  humor  too,  no  farce ;  but  that's  a  fault. 
Satire,  he  thinks,  you  ought  not  td  expect; 
For  so  reformed  a  town  who  dares  correct? 
To  please,  this  time,  has  been  his  sole  pretence, 
He'll  not  instruct,  lest  it  should  give  offence. 
Should  he  by  chance  a  knave  or  fool  expose, 
That  hurts  none  here,  sure  here  are  none  of  those: 
In  short,  our  play  shall  (with  your  leave  to  show  it) 
Give  you  one  instance  of  a  passive  poet, 
Who  to  your  judgments  yields  all  resignation; 
So  save  or  damn,  after  your  own  discretion. 


DRAMATIS  PERSONS 


FAINALL,  in  love  with  MRS.  MARWOOD. 
MIRABELL,   in   love  with  MRS.   MILLAMANT. 
WITWOUD,  )  _  ,, 
PETULANT    (  F°"owers  °f  MRS.  MILLAMANT. 

SIR  WILFULL  WITWOUD,  Half-brother  to  WIT- 
WOUD,  and   Nephew    to    LADY    WISHFORT. 
WAITWELL,   Servant   to   MIRABELL. 
Coachmen,  Dancers,  Footmen,   and  Attendants. 

LADY  WISHFORT,  Enemy  to  MIRABELL,  for  hav- 
ing  falsely   pretended    love    to    her. 


MRS.   MILLAMANT,  a  fine  Lady,  Niece  to  LADY 

WISHFORT,    and    loves    MIRABELL. 
MRS.    MARWOOD,    Friend   to   MR.   FAINALL,   and 

likes    MIRABELL. 
MRS.    FAINALL,    Daughter   to    LADY    WISHFORT, 

and    Wife   to   FAINALL,   formerly  Friend  to 

MIRABELL. 

FOIBLE,   Woman  to  LADY  WISHFORT. 
MINCING,    Woman   to  MRS.   MILLAMANT. 
BETTY,    Waiting-maid   at  a  Chocolate-house. 
PEG,   Maid  to   LADY   WISHFORT. 


SCENE. — LONDON. 


ACT  I 

SCENE  I 
A    Chocolate-house. 

MIRABELL    and    FAINALL,    rising    from     cards, 
BETTY  waiting. 

Mir.  You  are  a  fortunate  man,  Mr.  Fain- 
all! 

Fain.     Have  we  done? 

Mir.  What  you  please:  I'll  play  on  to  en- 
tertain you. 

Fain.  No,  I'll  give  you  your  revenge  an- 
other time,  when  you  are  not  so  indifferent; 
you  are  thinking  of  something  else  now,  and  |  the  patience  of  a  Stoic.  What,  some  coxcomb 

123 


play  too  negligently;  the  coldness  of  a  losing 
gamester  lessens  the  pleasure  of  the  winner. 
I'd  no  more  play  with  a  man  that  slighted 
his  ill  fortune  than  I'd  make  love  to  a 
woman  who  undervalued  the  loss  of  her 
reputation. 

Mir.  You  have  a  taste  extremely  delicate, 
and  are  for  refining  on  your  pleasures. 

Fain.  Prithee,  why  so  reserved?  Some- 
thing has  put  you  out  of  humor. 

Mir.  Not  at  all:  I  happen  to  be  grave  to- 
day, and  you  are  gay;  that's  all. 


you 


Fain.       Confess,        Millamant        and 
quarrelled  last  night  after  I  left  you;  my  fair 
cousin    has    some    humors    that    would    tempt 


ACT  I,  Sc.  I. 


THE  WAY  OF  THE  WORLD 


came  in,  and  was  well  received  by  her,  while 
you  were  by? 

Mir.  Witwoud  and  Petulant;  and  what  was 
worse,  her  aunt,  your  wife's  mother,  my  evil 
genius;  or  to  sum  up  all  in  her  own  name, 
my  old  Lady  Wishfort  came  in. 

Fain.  O,  there  it  is  then!  She  has  a  last- 
ing passion  for  you,  and  with  reason. — 
What,  then  my  wife  was  there? 

Mir.  Yes,  and  Mrs.  Marwood,  and  three 
or  four  more,  whom  I  never  saw  before.  See- 
ing me,  they  all  put  on  their  grave  faces, 
whispered  one  another;  then  complained 
aloud  of  the  vapors,  and  after  fell  into  a 
profound  silence. 

Fain.  They  had  a  mind  to  be  rid  of  you. 
Mir.  For  which  reason  I  resolved  not  to 
stir.  At  last  the  good  old  lady  broke  through 
her  painful  taciturnity  with  an  invective 
against  long  visits.  I  would  not  have  under- 
stood her,  but  Millamant  joining  in  the  argu- 
ment, I  rose,  and,  with  a  constrained  smile, 
told  her  I  thought  nothing  was  so  easy  as 
to  know  when  a  visit  began  to  be  trouble- 
some. She  reddened,  and  I  withdrew,  without 
expecting  her  reply. 

Fain.     You  were  to  blame  to  resent  what 
she  spoke  only  in  compliance  with  her  aunt. 
Mir.     She  is  more  mistress  of  herself  than 
to  be  under  the  necessity  of  such  a  resigna- 
tion. 

Fain.  What!  though  half  her  fortune  de- 
pends upon  her  marrying  with  my  lady's 
approbation  ? 

Mir.  1  was  then  in  such  a  humor,  that  I 
should  have  been  better  pleased  if  she  had 
been  less  discreet. 

Fain.  Now  I  remember,  I  wonder  not  they 
were  weary  of  you;  last  night  was  one  of 
their  cabal  nights;  they  have  'em  three 
times  a-week,  and  meet  by  turns  at  one 
another's  apartments,  where  they  come  to- 
gether like  the  coroner's  inquest,  to  sit  upon 
the  murdered  reputations  of  the  week.  You 
and  I  are  excluded;  and  it  was  once  proposed 
that  all  the  male  sex  should  be  excepted; 
but  somebody  moved  that,  to  avoid  scandal, 
there  might  be  one  man  of  the  community; 
upon  which  motion  Witwoud  and  Petulant 
were  enrolled  members. 

Mir.  And  who  may  have  been  the 
foundress  of  this  sect?  My  Lady  Wishfort, 
I  warrant,  who  publishes  her  detestation  of 
mankind;  and  full  of  the  vigor  of  fifty-five, 
declares  for  a  friend  and  ratafia;  and  let 
posterity  shift  for  itself,  she'll  breed  no  more. 
Fain.  The  discovery  of  your  sham  addresses 
to  her,  to  conceal  your  love  to  her  niece,  has 
provoked  this  separation;  had  you  dissembled 
better,  things  might  have  continued  in  the 
state  of  nature. 

Mir.  I  did  as  much  as  man  could,  with 
any  reasonable  conscience;  I  proceeded  to  the 
very  last  act  of  flattery  with  her,  and  was 


guilty  of  a  song  in  her  commendation.  Nay, 
I  got  a  friend  to  put  her  into  a  lampoon,  and 
compliment  her  with  the  imputation  of  an 
affair  with  a  young  fellow,  which  I  carried 
so  far,  that  I  told  her  the  malicious  town 
took  notice  that  she  Was  grown  fat  of  a 
sudden;  and  when  she  lay  in  of  a  dropsy, 
persuaded  her  she  was  reported  to  be  in 
labor.  The  devil's  in't,  if  an  old  woman  is 
to  be  flattered  further,  unless  a  man  should 
endeavor  downright  personally  to  debauch 
her;  and  that  my  virtue  forbade  me.  But 
for  the  discovery  of  this  amour  I  am  indebted 
to  your  friend,  or  your  wife's  friend,  Mrs. 
Marwood. 

Fain.  What  should  provoke  her  to  be  your 
enemy,  unless  she  has  made  you  advances 
which  you  have  slighted?  Women  do  not 
easily  forgive  omissions  of  that  nature. 

Mir.  She  was  always  civil  to  me  till  of 
late. — I  confess  I  am  not  one  of  those  cox- 
combs who  are  apt  to  interpret  a  woman's 
good  manners  to  her  prejudice,  and  think 
that  she  who  does  not  refuse  'em  everything, 
can  refuse  'em  nothing. 

/•',.••';.'.  You  are  a  gallant  man,  Mirabell; 
and  though  you  may  have  cruelty  enough  not 
to  satisfy  a  lady's  longing,  you  have  too 
much  generosity  not  to  be  tender  of  her 
honor.  Yet  you  speak  with  an  indifference 
which  seems  to  be  affected,  and  confesses 
you  are  conscious  of  a  negligence. 

Mir.  You  pursue  the  argument  with  a 
distrust  that  seems  to  be  unaffected,  and 
confesses  you  are  conscious  of  a  concern  for 
which  the  lady  is  more  indebted  to  you  than 
is  your  wife. 

Fain.  Fy,  fy,  friend!  if  you  grow  censor- 
ious I  must  leave  you. — I'll  look  upon  the 
gamesters  in  the  next  room. 

Mir.     Who  are   they? 

Fain.  Petulant  and  Witwoud. — [To  BETTY.] 
Bring  me  some  chocolate.  [E.vit. 

Mir.     Betty,   what  says   your  clock? 

Bet.  Turned  of  the  last  canonical  hour, 
sir.  [Exit. 

Mir.  How  pertinently  the  jade  answers 
me! — [Looking  on  his  watch.] — Ha!  almost  one 
o'clock! — Oh,  y'are  come! 

Enter   Footman. 

Well,  is  the  grand  affair  over?  You  have 
been  something  tedious. 

Foot.  Sir,  there's  such  coupling  at  Pan- 
eras  that  they  stand  behind  one  another,  as 
'twere  in  a  country  dance.  Ours  was  the  last 
couple  to  lead  up;  and  no  hopes  appearing 
of  dispatch;  besides,  the  parson  growing 
hoarse,  we  were  afraid  his  lungs  would  have 
failed  before  it  came  to  our  turn;  so  we 
drove  round  to  Duke's-place;  and  there  they 
were  rivetted  in  a  trice. 

Mir.  So,  so,  you  are  sure  they  are  mar- 
ried. 


124 


THE  WAY  OF  THE  WORLD 


ACT  I,  Sc.  I. 


Foot. 
ness. 

Mir. 
Foot. 
Mir. 


Married  and  bedded,  sir;  I  am  wit- 


Have  you  the  certificate? 
Here    it    is,    sir. 

Has    the    tailor    brought    Waitwell's 
clothes  home,  and  the  new  liveries? 
Foot.     Yes,   sir. 

Mir.  That's  well.  Do  you  go  home  again, 
d'ye  hear,  and  adjourn  the  consummation  till 
farther  orders.  Bid  Waitwell  shake  his  ears, 
and  Dame  Partlet  rustle  up  her  feathers,  and 
meet  me  at  one  o'clock  by  Rosamond's  Pond, 
that  I  may  see  her  before  she  returns  to  her 
lady;  and  as  you  tender  your  ears  be  secret. 
[Exit  Footman. 

Re-enter  FAIN  ALL  and  BETTY. 

Fain.  Joy  of  your  success,  Mirabell;  you 
look  pleased. 

Mir.  Aye;  I  have  been  engaged  in  a  mat- 
ter of  some  sort  of  mirth,  which  is  not  yet 
ripe  for  discovery.  I  am  glad  this  is  not  a 
cabal  night.  I  wonder,  Fainall,  that  you  who 
are  married  and  of  consequence  should  be 
discreet,  will  suffer  your  wife  to  be  of  such  a 
party. 

Fain.  Faith,  I  am  not  jealous.  Besides, 
most  who  are  engaged  are  women  and  rela- 
tions; and  for  the  men,  they  are  of  a  kind 
too  contemptible  to  give  scandal. 

Mir.  I  am  of  another  opinion.  The  greater 
the  coxcomb,  always  the  more  the  scandal: 
for  a  woman  who  is  not  a  fool  can  have  but 
one  reason  for  associating  with  a  man  who 
is  one. 

Fain.  Are  you  jealous  as  often  as  you  see 
Witwoud  entertained  by  Millamant? 

Mir.  Of  her  understanding  I  am,  if  not 
of  her  person. 

Fain.  You  do  her  wrong;  for,  to  give  her 
her  due,  she  has  wit. 

Mir.  She  has  beauty  enough  to  make  any 
man  think  so;  and  complaisance  enough  not 
to  contradict  him  who  shall  tell  her  so. 

Fain.  For  a  passionate  lover,  methinks 
you  are  a  man  somewhat  too  discerning  in 
the  failings  of  your  mistress. 

Mir.  And  for  a  discerning  man,  somewhat 
too  passionate  a  lover;  for  I  like  her  with 
all  her  faults;  nay,  like  her  for  her  faults. 
Her  follies  are  so  natural,  or  so  artful,  that 
they  become  her;  and  those  affectations 
which  in  another  woman  would  be  odious, 
serve  but  to  make  her  more  agreeable.  I'll 
tell  thee,  Fainall,  she  once  used  me  with 
that  insolence,  that  in  revenge  I  took  her  to 
pieces;  sifted  her,  and  separated  her  failings; 
I  studied  'em,  and  got  'em  by  rote.  The 
catalogue  was  so  large,  that  I  was  not  with- 
out hopes  one  day  or  other  to  hate  her 
heartily:  to  which  end  I  so  used  myself  to 
think  of  'em,  that  at  length,  contrary  to  my 
design  and  expectation,  they  gave  me  every 
hour  less  and  less  disturbance;  till  in  a  few 


days  it  became  habitual  to  me  to  remember 
'em  without  being  displeased.  They  are  now 
grown  as  familiar  to  me  as  my  own  frailties; 
and  in  all  probability,  in  a  little  time  longer, 
I  shall  like  'em  as  well. 

Fain.  Marry  her,  marry  her!  Be  half  as 
well  acquainted  with  her  charms,  as  you  are 
with  •  her  defects,  and  my  life  on't,  you  are 
your  own  man  again. 

Mir.     Say  you  so? 

Fain.  Ay,  ay,  I  have  experience:  I  have 
a  wife,  and  so  forth. 

Enter  Messenger. 

Mes.     Is  one  squire  Witwoud  here? 

Bet.     Yes,  what's  your  business? 

Mes.  I  have  a  letter  for  him,  from  his 
brother  Sir  Wilfull,  which  I  am  charged  to 
deliver  into  his  own  hands. 

Bet.  He's  in  the  next  room,  friend — that 
way.  [Exit  Messenger. 

Mir.  What,  is  the  chief  of  that  noble  fam- 
ily in  town,  Sir  Wilfull  Witwoud? 

Fain.  He  is  expected  to-day.  Do  you  know 
him? 

Mir.  I  have  seen  him.  He  promises  to  be 
an  extraordinary  person;  I  think  you  have 
the  honor  to  be  related  to  him. 

Fain.  Yes;  he  is  half-brother  to  this  Wit- 
woud by  a  former  wife,  who  was  sister  to 
my  Lady  Wishfort,  my  wife's  mother.  If  you 
marry  Millamant,  you  must  call  cousins  too. 

Mir.  I  had  rather  be  his  relation  than  his 
acquaintance. 

Fain.  He  comes  to  town  in  order  to  equip 
himself  for  travel. 

Mir.  For  travel!  Why,  the  man  that  I 
mean  is  above  forty. 

Fain.  No  matter  for  that;  'tis  for  the 
honor  of  England,  that  all  Europe  should 
know  we  have  blockheads  of  all  ages. 

Mir.  I  wonder  there  is  not  an  act  of  par- 
liament to  save  the  credit  of  the  nation,  and 
prohibit  the  exportation  of  fools. 

Fain.  By  no  means;  'tis  better  as  'tis. 
'Tis  better  to  trade  with  a  little  loss,  than  to 
be  quite  eaten  up  with  being  overstocked. 

Mir.  Pray,  are  the  follies  of  this  knight- 
errant,  and  those  of  the  squire  his  brother, 
anything  related? 

Fain.  Not  at  all;  Witwoud  grows  by  the 
knight,  like  a  medlar  grafted  on  a  crab.  One 
will  melt  in  your  mouth,  and  t'other  set  your 
teeth  on  edge;  one  is  all  pulp,  and  the  other 
all  core. 

Mir.  So  one  will  be  rotten  before  he  be 
ripe,  and  the  other  will  be  rotten  without 
ever  being  ripe  at  all. 

Fain.  Sir  Wilfull  is  an  odd  mixture  of 
bashfulness  and  obstinacy. — But  when  he's 
drunk  he's  as  loving  as  the  monster  in  '/'/•, • 
Tempest,  and  much  after  the  same  manner. 
To  give  t'other  his  due,  he  has  something  of 
good  nature,  and  does  not  always  want  wit. 


125 


ACT  I,  Sc.  I. 


THE  WAY  OF  THE  WORLD 


Mir.  Not  always:  but  as  often  as  his 
memory  fails  him,  and  his  commonplace  of 
comparisons.  He  is  a  fool  with  a  good  mem- 
ory, and  some  few  scraps  of  other  folks'  wit. 
He  is  one  whose  conversation  can  never  be 
approved,  yet  it  is  now  and  then  to  be  en- 
dured. He  has  indeed  one  good  quality,  he  is 
not  exceptious;  for  he  so  passionately  affects 
the  reputation  of  understanding  raillery,  that 
he  will  construe  an  affront  into  a  jest;  and 
call  downright  rudeness  and  ill  language, 
satire  and  fire. 

Fain.  If  you  have  a  mind  to  finish  his 
picture,  you  have  an  opportunity  to  do  it  at 
full  length.  Behold  the  original! 

Enter  WITWOUD. 

Wit.  Afford  me  your  compassion,  my 
dears!  Pity  me,  Fainall!  Mirabell,  pity  me! 

Mir.     I  do  from  my   soul. 

Fain.     Why,  what's  the   matter? 

Wit.     No  letters  for  me,  Betty? 

Bet.  Did  not  a  messenger  bring  you  one 
but  now,  sir? 

Wit.     Ay,   but  no   other? 

Bet.     No,  sir. 

Wit.  That's  hard,  that's  very  hard.— A 
messenger !  a  mule,  a  beast  of  burden !  he 
has  brought  me  a  letter  from  the  fool  my 
brother,  as  heavy  as  a  panegyric  in  a  funeral 
sermon,  or  a  copy  of  commendatory  verses 
from  one  poet  to  another:  and  what's  worse, 
'tis  as  sure  a  forerunner  of  the  author,  as 
an  epistle  dedicatory. 

Mir.     A  fool,  and  your  brother,  Witwoud! 

Wit.  Ay,  ay,  my  half-brother.  My  half- 
brother  he  is;  no  nearer,  upon  honor. 

Mir.  Then  'tis  possible  he  may  be  but  half 
a  fool. 

Wit.  Good,  good,  Mirabell,  le  drole! 
Good,  good;  hang  him,  don't  let's  talk  of 
him. — Fainall,  how  does  your  lady?  Gad,  I 
say  anything  in  the  world  to  get  this  fellow 
out  of  my  head.  I  beg  pardon  that  I  should 
ask  a  man  of  pleasure,  and  the  town,  a  ques- 
tion at  once  so  foreign  and  domestic.  But  I 
talk  like  an  old  maid  at  a  marriage;  I  don't 
know  what  I  say:  b'ut  she's  the  best  woman 
in  the  world. 

Fain.  'Tis  well  you  don't  know  what  you 
say,  or  else  your  commendation  would  go 
near  to  make  me  either  vain  or  jealous. 

Wit.  No  man  in  town  lives  well  with  a 
wife  but  Fainall.— Your  judgment,  Mirabell. 

Mir.  You  had  better  step  and  ask  his  wife, 
if  you  would  be  credibly  informed. 

Wit.     Mirabell? 

Mir.     Ay. 

Wit.  My  dear,  I  ask  ten  thousand  par- 
dons;—gad,  I  have  forgot  what  I  was  going 
to  say  to  you! 

Mir.     1  thank  you  heartily,  heartily. 

Wit.  No,  but  prithee  excuse  me: — my 
memory  is  such  a  memory. 


Mir.  Have  a  care  of  such  apologies,  Wit- 
woud; for  I  never  knew  a  fool  but  he  affected 
to  complain,  either  of  the  spleen  or  his 
memory. 

Fain.  What  have  you  done  with  Petulant? 
Wit.  He's  reckoning  his  money — my  money 
it  was.— I  have  no  luck  to-day. 

Fain.  You  may  allow  him  to  win  of  you 
at  play:  for  you  are  sure  to  be  too  hard  for 
him  at  repartee;  since  you  monopolize  the 
wit  that  is  between  you,  the  fortune  must  be 
his  of  course. 

Mir.  I  don't  find  that  Petulant  confesses 
the  superiority  of  wit  to  be  your  talent, 
Witwoud. 

Wit.  Come,  come,  you  are  malicious  now, 
and  would  breed  debates.— Petulant's  my 
friend,  and  a  very  honest  fellow,  and  a  very 
pretty  fellow,  and  has  a  smattering — faith 
and  troth,  a  pretty  deal  of  an  odd  sort  of  a 
small  wit:  nay,  I'll  do  him  justice.  I'm  his 
friend,  I  won't  wrong  him. — And  if  he  had 
any  judgement  in  the  world,  he  would  not 
be  altogether  contemptible.  Come,  come, 
don't  detract  from  the  merits  of  my  friend. 

Fain.  You  don't  take  your  friend  to  be 
over-nicely  bred? 

Wit.  No,  no,  hang  him,  the  rogue  has  no 
manners  at  all,  that  I  must  own: — no  more 
breeding  than  a  bum-bailiff,  that  I  grant 
you: — 'tis  pity;  the  fellow  has  fire  and  life. 

Mir.     What,   courage? 

Wit.  Hum,  faith,  I  don't  know  as  to  that, 
I  can't  say  as  to  that.  Yes,  faith,  in  a  con- 
troversy, he'll  contradict  anybody. 

Mir.  Though  'twere  a  man  whom  he 
feared,  or  a  woman  whom  he  loved. 

Wit.  Well,  well,  he  does  not  always  think 
before  he  speaks; — we  have  all  our  failings: 
you  are  too  hard  upon  him,  you  are,  faith. 
Let  me  excuse  him — I  can  defend  most  of  his 
faults,  except  one  or  two:  one  he  has,  that's 
the  truth  on't;  if  he  were  my  brother,  I  could 
not  acquit  him: — that,  indeed,  I  could  wish 
were  otherwise. 

Mir.     Ay,  marry,  what's  that,  Witwoud? 

Wit.  O  pardon  me!— Expose  the  infirmities 
of  my  friend! — No,  my  dear,  excuse  me  there. 

Fain.  What,  I  warrant  he's  unsincere,  or 
'tis  some  such  trifle. 

Wit.  No,  no;  what  if  he  be?  'tis  no  mat- 
ter for  that,  his  wit  will  excuse  that:  a  wit 
should  no  more  be  sincere,  than  a  woman 
constant;  one  argues  a  decay  of  parts,  as 
t'other  of  beauty. 

Mir.     Maybe   you    think   him   too  positive? 

U'it.  No,  no,  his  being  positive  is  an  in- 
centive to  argument,  and  keeps  up  conver- 
sation. 

Fain.     Too    illiterate? 

Wit.  That!  that's  his  happiness:— his 
want  of  learning  gives  him  the  more  oppor- 
tunities to  show  his  natural  parts. 

Mir.     He  wants  words? 


126 


THE  WAY  OF  THE  WORLD 


ACT  I,  Sc.  I. 


Wit.  Ay:  but  I  like  him  for  that  now; 
for  his  want  of  words  gives  me  the  pleasure 
very  often  to  explain  his  meaning. 

Fain.     He's  impudent? 

Wit.     No,  that's  not  it. 

Mir.     Vain  ? 

Wit.     No. 

Mir.  What!  He  speaks  unseasonable 
truths  sometimes,  because  he  has  not  wit 
enough  to  invent  an  evasion? 

Wit.  Truths!  ha!  ha!  ha!  No,  no;  since 
you  will  have  it, — I  mean,  he  never  speaks 
truth  at  all,— that's  all.  He  will  lie  like  a 
chambermaid,  or  a  woman  of  quality's  porter. 
Now  that  is  a  fault. 

Enter  Coachman. 

Coach.     Is  Master  Petulant  here,  mistress? 

Bet.     Yes. 

Coach.  Three  gentlewomen  in  a  coacli 
would  speak  with  him. 

Fain.     O  brave  Petulant!  three! 

Bet.     I'll  tell  him. 

Coach.  You  must  bring  two  dishes  of 
chocolate  and  a  glass  of  cinnamon-water. 

[Exeunt   BETTY  and   Coachman. 

Wit.  That  should  be  for  two  fasting 
strumpets,  and  a  bawd  troubled  with  the 
wind.  Now  you  may  know  what  the  three 
are. 

Mir.  You  are  very  free  with  your  friend's 
acquaintance. 

Wit.  Ay,  ay,  friendship  without  freedom 
is  as  dull  as  love  without  enjoyment,,  or  wine 
without  toasting.  But  to  tell  you  a  secret, 
these  are  trulls  whom  he  allows  coach-hire, 
and  something  more,  by  the  week,  to  call  on 
him  once  a  day  at  public  places. 

Mir.     How! 

Wit.  You  shall  see  he  won't  go  to  'em, 
because  there's  no  more  company  here  to 
take  notice  of  him.— Why,  this  is  nothing  to 
what  he  used  to  do:— before  he  found  out  this 
way,  I  have  known  him  call  for  himself. 

Fain.  Call  for  himself!  What  dost  thou 
mean? 

Wit.  Mean!  Why,  he  would  slip  you  out 
of  this  chocolate-house,  just  when  you  had 
been  talking  to  him— as  soon  as  your  back 
was  turned — whip  he  was  gone ! — then  trip  to 
his  lodging,  clap  on  a  hood  and  scarf,  and 
a  mask,  slap  into  a  hackney-coach,  and  drive 
hither  to  the  door  again  in  a  trice,  where  he 
would  send  in  for  himself;  that  I  mean,  call 
for  himself,  wait  for  himself;  nay,  and  what's 
more,  not  finding  himself,  sometimes  leave  a 
letter  for  himself. 

Mir.  I  confess  this  is  something  extraor- 
dinary.—I  believe  he  waits  for  himself  now, 
he  is  so  long  a-coming:  Oh!  I  ask  his  pardon. 

Enter  PETULANT  and   BETTY. 

Bet.     Sir,  the  coach  stays. 

Pet.     Well,    well;— I    come.— 'Sbud,    a    man 


bad  as  good  be  a  professed  midwife  as  a 
professed  whoremaster,  at  this  rate!  to  be 
knocked  up  and  raised  at  all  hours,  and  in 
all  places!  Pox  on  'em,  I  won't  come! — D'ye 
bear,  tell  'em  I  won't  come: — let  'em  snivel 
and  cry  their  hearts  out. 

Fain.     You  are   very  cruel,   Petulant. 

/'.•/.  All's  one,  let  it  pass:  I  have  a 
humor  to  be  cruel. 

Mir.  I  hope  they  are  not  persons  of  con- 
dition that  you  use  at  this  rate. 

Pet.  Condition!  condition's  a  dried  fig,  if 
I  am  not  in  humor! — By  this  hand,  if  they 
were  your — a — a — your  what  d'ye-call-'ems 
themselves,  they  must  wait  or  rub  off,  if  I 
want  appetite. 

Mir.  What  d'ye-call-'ems !  What  are  they, 
Witwoud? 

Wit.  Empresses,  my  dear: — by  your  what- 
d'ye-call-'ems  he  means  sultana  queens. 

Pet.     Ay,    Roxalanas. 

Mir.     Cry    you    mercy! 

Fain.     Witwoud    says    they   are — 

/',-/.     What   does   he    say    th'   are? 

Wit.     I?     Fine   ladies,    I   say. 

Pet.  Pass  on,  Witwoud. — Hark'ee,  by  this 
light,  his  relations: — two  co-heiresses  his 
cousins,  and  an  old  aunt,  who  loves  cater- 
wauling better  than  a  conventicle. 

Wit.  Ha!  ha!  ha!  I  had  a  mind  to  see 
how  the  rogue  would  come  off. — Ha!  ha!  ha! 
Gad,  I  can't  be  angry  with  him,  if  he  had 
said  they  were  my  mother  and  my  sisters. 

Mir.     No! 

Wit.  No;  the  rogue's  wit  and  readiness 
of  invention  charm  me.  Dear  Petulant! 

Bet.     They   are    gone,   sir,   in   great   anger. 

Pet.  Enough,  let  'em  trundle.  Anger 
helps  complexion,  saves  paint. 

Fain.  This  continence  is  all  dissembled; 
this  is  in  order  to  have  something  to  brag  of 
the  next  time  he  makes  court  to  Millamant, 
and  swear  he  has  abandoned  the  whole  sex 
for  her  sake. 

Mir.  Have  you  not  left  off  your  impudent 
pretensions  there  yet?  I  shall  cut  your 
throat  some  time  or  other,  Petulant,  about 
that  business. 

Pet.  Ay,  ay,  let  that  pass — there  are  other 
throats  to  be  cut. 

Mir.     Meaning  mine,   sir? 

Pet.  Not  I— I  mean  nobody— I  know  noth- 
ing:— but  there  are  uncles  and  nephews  in 
the  world — and  they  may  be  rivals— what, 
then!  All's  one  for  that. 

Mir.  How!  hark'ee,  Petulant,  come  hither: 
— explain,  or  I  shall  call  your  interpreter. 

Pet.  Explain!  I  know  nothing.  Why,  you 
have  an  uncle,  have  you  not,  lately  come  to 
town,  and  lodges  by  my  Lady  Wishfort's? 

Mir.     True. 

Pet.  Why,  that's  enough— you  and  he  are 
not  friends;  and  if  he  should  marry  and 
have  a  child,  you  may  be  disinherited,  ha? 


127 


ACT  I,  Sc.  I. 


THE  WAY  OF  THE  WORLD 


Mir.  Where  hast  thou  stumbled  upon  all 
this  truth? 

Pet.  All's  one  for  that;  why,  then,  say  I 
know  something. 

Mir.  Come,  thou  art  an  honest  fellow, 
Petulant,  and  shalt  make  love  to  my  mis- 
tress, thou  sha't,  faith.  What  hast  thou 
heard  of  my  uncle? 


If  throats  are  to  be 
snug's    the    word,    I 


Pet.  I?  Nothing,  I. 
cut,  let  swords  clash! 
shrug  and  am  silent. 

Mir.  Oh,  raillery,  raillery!  Come,  I  know 
thou  art  in  the  women's  secrets. — What, 
you're  a  cabalist;  I  know  you  stayed  at  Mil- 
lamant's  last  night,  after  I  went.  Was  there 
any  mention  made  of  my  uncle  or  me?  Tell 
me.  If  thou  hadst  but  good  nature  equal  to 
thy  wit,  Petulant,  Tony  Witwoud,  who  is 
now  thy  competitor  in  fame,  would  show  as 
dim  by  thee  as  a  dead  whiting's  eye  by  a 
pearl  of  orient;  he  would  no  more  be  seen 
by  thee,  than  Mercury  is  by  the  sun.  Come, 
I'm  sure  thou  wo't  tell  me. 

Pet.  If  I  do,  will  you  grant  me  common 
•ense  then  for  the  future? 

Mir.  Faith,  I'll  do  what  I  can  for  thee, 
and  I'll  pray  that  Heaven  may  grant  it  thee 
in  the  meantime. 

Pet.     Well,    hark'ee. 

[MIRABEL  and   PETULANT   talk   apart. 

Fain.  Petulant  and  you  both  will  find 
Mirabel  as  warm  a  rival  as  a  lover. 

Wit.  Pshaw!  pshaw!  that  she  laughs  at 
Petulant  is  plain.  And  for  my  part,  but  that 
it  is  almost  a  fashion  to  admire  her,  I 
should— hark'ee — to  tell  you  a  secret,  but  let 
it  go  no  further — between  friends,  I  shall 
never  break  my  heart  for  her. 

Fain.     How ! 

Wit.  She's  handsome;  but  she's  a  sort  of 
an  uncertain  woman. 

Fain.     I  thought  you  had  died  for  her. 

Wit.     Umh— no— 

Fain.     She  has  wit. 

Wit.  'Tis  what  she  will  hardly  allow  any- 
body else: — now,  demnie,  I  should  hate  that, 
if  she  were  as  handsome  as  Cleopatra.  Mira- 
bell  is  not  so  sure  of  her  as  he  thinks 
for. 

Fain.     Why  do  you  think   so? 

Wit.  We  stayed  pretty  late  there  last 
night,  and  heard  something  of  an  uncle  to 
Mirabell,  who  is  lately  come  to  town — and  is 
between  him  and  the  best  part  of  his  estate. 
Mirabell  and  he  are  at  some  distance,  as  my 
Lady  Wishfort  has  been  told;  and  you  know 
she  hates  Mirabell  worse  than  a  quaker 
hates  a  parrot,  or  than  a  fishmonger  hates 
a  hard  frost.  Whether  this  uncle  has  seen 
Mrs.  Millamant  or  not,  I  cannot  say,  but 
there  were  items  of  such  a  treaty  being  in 
embryo;  and  if  it  should  come  to  life,  poor 
Mirabell  would  be  in  some  sort  unfortunately 
fobbed,  i'faith. 


I  thought  you  had  been  the  greatest 


Fain.  'Tis  impossible  Millamant  should 
hearken  to  it. 

II' it.  Faith,  my  dear,  I  can't  tell;  she's  a 
woman,  and  a  kind  of  a  humorist. 

Mir.  And  this  is  the  sum  of  what  you 
could  collect  last  night? 

/'••,'.  The  quintessence.  Maybe  Witwoud 
knows  more,  he  staid  longer: — besides,  they 
never  mind  him;  they  say  anything  before 
him. 

Mir. 
favorite. 

Pet.  Ay,  tete-a-tete,  but  not  in  public,  be- 
cause I  make  remarks. 

Mir.     You  do? 

I'd .  Ay,  ay ;  pox,  I'm  malicious,  man ! 
Now  he's  soft  you  know;  they  are  not  in 
awe  of  him— the  fellow's  well-bred;  he's  what 
you  call  a — what-d'ye-call-'em,  a  fine  gentle- 
man; but  he's  silly  withal. 

Mir.  I  thank  you,  I  know  as  much  as 
my  curiosity  requires. — Fainall,  are  you  for 
the  Mall? 

Fain.     Ay,    I'll   take   a   turn  before   dinner. 

Wit.  Ay,  we'll  all  walk  in  the  Park;  the 
ladies  talked  of  being  there. 

Mir.  I  thought  you  were  obliged  to  watch 
for  your  brother  Sir  Wilfull's  arrival. 

ll'ii.  No,  no;  he  comes  to  his  aunt's,  my 
lady  Wishfort.  Pox  on  him!  I  shall  be 
troubled  with  him,  too;  what  shall  I  do  with 
the  fool? 

Pet.  Beg  him  for  his  estate,  that  I  may 
beg  you  afterwards:  and  so  have  but  one 
trouble  with  you  both. 

Wit.  O,  rare  Petulant!  Thou  art  as  quick 
as  fire  in  a  frosty  morning:  thou  shalt  to 
the  Mall  with  us,  and  we'll  be  very  se- 
vere. 

Pet.  Enough,  I'm  in  a  humor  to  be 
severe. 

Mir.  Are  you?  Pray,  then,  walk  by  your- 
selves: let  not  us  be  accessory  to  your  put- 
ting the  ladies  out  of  countenance  with  your 
senseless  ribaldry,  which  you  roar  out  aloud 
as  often  as  they  pass  by  you;  and  when  you 
have  made  a  handsome  woman  blush,  then 
you  think  you  have  been  severe. 

Pet.  What,  what!  Then  let  'em  either 
show  their  innocence  by  not  understanding 
what  they  hear,  or  else  show  their  discretion 
by  not  hearing  what  they  would  not  be 
thought  to  understand. 

Mir.  But  hast  not  thou  then  sense  enough 
to  know  that  thou  oughtest  to  be  most 
ashamed  thyself,  when  thou  hast  put  an- 
other out  of  countenance? 

Pet.  Not  I,  by  this  hand!— I  always  take 
blushing  either  for  a  sign  of  guilt,  or  ill 
breeding. 

Mir.  I  confess  you  ought  to  think  so. 
You  are  in  the  right,  that  you  may  plead 
the  error  of  your  judgment  in*  defence  of 
your  practice. 


128 


THE  WAY  OF  THE  WORLD 


ACT  II,  Sc.  I. 


Where  modesty's  ill  manners,  'tis  but  fit 
That  impudence  and  malice  pass  for  wit. 

[Exeunt. 

ACT  II 

SCENE  I 

ST.  JAMES'S  PARK. 
MRS.    FAINALL   and   MRS.    MARWOOD. 

Mrs.  Fain.  Ay,  ay,  dear  Marwood,  if  we 
will  be  happy,  we  must  find  the  means  in 
ourselves,  and  among  ourselves.  Men  are 
ever  in  extremes;  either  doting  or  averse. 
While  they  are  lovers,  if  they  have  fire  and 
sense,  their  jealousies  are  insupportable;  and 
when  they  cease  to  love  (we  ought  to  think 
at  least)  they  loathe;  they  look  upon  us 
with  horror  and  distaste;  they  meet  us  like 
the  ghosts  of  what  we  were,  and  as  such,  fly 
from  us. 

Mrs.  Mar.  True,  'tis  an  unhappy  circum- 
stance of  life,  that  love  should  ever  die  be- 
fore us;  and  that  the  man  so  often  should 
outlive  the  lover.  But  say  what  you  will, 
'tis  better  to  be  left  than  never  to  have  been 
loved.  To  pass  our  youth  in  dull  indifference, 
to  refuse  the  sweets  of  life  because  they  once 
must  leave  us,  is  as  preposterous  as  to  wish 
to  have  been  born  old,  because  we  one  day 
must  be  old.  For  my  part,  my  youth  may 
wear  and  waste,  but  it  shall  never  rust  in 
my  possession. 

Mrs.  Fain.  Then  it  seems  you  dissemble 
an  aversion  to  mankind,  only  in  compliance 
to  my  mother's  humor? 

Mrs.  Mar.  Certainly.  To  be  free;  I  have 
no  taste  of  those  insipid  dry  discourses, 
with  which  our  sex  of  force  must  entertain 
themselves,  apart  from  men.  We  may  af- 
fect endearments  to  each  other,  profess  eter- 
nal friendships,  and  seem  to  dote  like  lovers; 
but  'tis  not  in  our  natures  long  to  persevere. 
Love  will  resume  his  empire  in  our  breasts; 
and  every  heart,  or  soon  or  late,  receive  and 
re-admit  him  as  its  lawful  tyrant. 

Mrs.  Fain.  Bless  me,  how  have  I  been  de- 
ceived! Why,  you  profess  a  libertine. 

Mrs.  Mar.  You  see  my  friendship  by  my 
freedom.  Come,  be  as  sincere,  acknowledge 
that  your  sentiments  agree  with  mine. 

Mrs.  Fain.     Never! 

Mrs.  Mar.     You  hate  mankind? 

Mrs.    Fain.     Heartily,   inveterately. 

Mrs.  Mar.     Your  husband  ? 

Mrs.  Fain.  Most  transcendently;  ay, 
though  I  say  it,  meritoriously. 

Mrs.  Alar.     Give  me  your  hand  upon  it. 

Mrs.  Fain.     There. 

Mrs.  Mar.  I  join  with  you;  what  I  have 
said  has  been  to  try  you. 

Mrs.  Fain.  Is  it  possible?  Dost  thou  hate 
those  vipers,  men? 


Mrs.  Mar.  I  have  done  hating  'em,  and 
am  now  come  to  despise  'em;  the  next  thing 
I  have  to  do,  is  eternally  to  forget  'em. 

Mrs.  Fain.  There  spoke  the  spirit  of  an 
Amazon,  a  Penthesilea ! 

Mrs.  Mar.  And  yet  I  am  thinking  some- 
times to  carry  my  aversion  further. 

Mrs.  Fain.     How  ? 

Mrs.  Mar.  Faith,  by  marrying;  if  I  could 
but  find  one  that  loved  me  very  well,  and 
would  be  thoroughly  sensible  of  ill  usage,  I 
think  I  should  do  myself  the  violence  of 
undergoing  the  ceremony. 

Mrs.  Fain.  You  would  not  make  him  a 
cuckold  ? 

Mrs.  Mar.  No;  but  I'd  make  him  believe 
I  did,  and  that's  as  bad. 

Mrs.  Fain.  Why,  had  not  you  as  good 
do  it? 

Mrs.  Mar.  Oh!  if  he  should  ever  discover 
it,  he  would  then  know  the  worst,  and  be  out 
of  his  pain;  but  I  would  have  him  ever  to 
continue  upon  the  rack  of  fear  and  jealousy. 

Mrs.  Fain.  Ingenious  mischief!  would  thou 
wert  married  to  Mirabell. 

Mrs.   Mar.     Would   I   were! 

Mrs.   Fain.     You  change  color. 

Mrs.    Mar.     Because   I    hate    him. 

Mrs.  Fain.  So  do  I;  but  I  can  hear  him 
named.  But  what  reason  have  you  to  hate 
him  in  particular? 

Mrs.  Mar.  I  never  loved  him;  he  is,  and 
always  was,  insufferably  proud. 

Mrs.  Fain.  By  the  reason  you  give  for 
your  aversion,  one  would  think  it  dissembled; 
for  you  have  laid  a  fault  to  his  charge,  of 
which  his  enemies  must  acquit  him. 

Mrs.  Mar.  Oh,  then  it  seems  you  are  one 
of  his  favorable  enemies !  Methinks  you 
look  a  little  pale,  and  now  you  flush  again. 

Mrs.  Fain.  Do  I  ?  I  think  I  am  a  little 
sick  o'  the  sudden. 

Mrs.   Mar.     What   ails   you? 

Mrs.  Fain.  My  husband.  Don't  you  see 
him  ?  He  turned  short  upon  me  unawares, 
and  has  almost  overcome  me. 

Enter    FAINALL    and    MIRABELL 

Mrs.  Mar.  Ha !  ha !  ha !  He  comes  oppor- 
tunely for  you. 

Mrs.  Fain.  For  you,  for  he  has  brought 
Mirabell  with  him. 

Fain.     My  dear! 

Mrs.  Fain.     My  soul! 

Fain.     You    don't    look    well    to-day,    child. 

Mrs.  Fain.     D'ye  think  so? 

Mir.  He  is  the  only  man  that  does, 
madam. 

Mrs.  Fain.  The  only  man  that  would  tell 
me  so  at  least;  and  the  only  man  from  whom 
I  could  hear  it  without  mortification. 

Fain.  O,  my  dear,  I  am  satisfied  of  your 
tenderness;  I  know  you  cannot  resent  any- 


129 


ACT  II,  Sc.  I. 


THE  WAY  OF  THE  WORLD 


thing  from  me;  especially  what  is  an   effect 
of  my  concern. 

Mrs.  Fain.  Mr.  Mirabell,  my  mother  in- 
terrupted you  in  a  pleasant  relation  last 
night;  I  would  fain  hear  it  out. 

Mir,  The  persons  concerned  in  that  affair 
have  yet  a  tolerable  reputation. — I  am  afraid 
Mr.  Fainall  will  be  censorious. 

Airs.  Fain.  He  has  a  humor  more  prevail- 
ing than  his  curiosity,  and  will  willingly  dis- 
pense with  the  hearing  of  one  scandalous 
•tory,  to  avoid  giving  an  occasion  to  make 
another  by  being  seen  to  walk  with  his  wife. 
This  way,  Mr.  Mirabell,  and  I  dare  promise 
you  will  oblige  us  both. 

[Exeunt  MRS.  FAINALL  and  MIRABELL. 

Fain.  Excellent  creature!  Well,  sure  if  I 
should  live  to  be  rid  of  my  wife,  I  should  be 
a  miserable  man. 

Mrs.  Mar.     Ay ! 

Fain.  For  having  only  that  one  hope,  the 
accomplishment  of  it,  of  consequence,  must 
put  an  end  to  all  my  hopes;  and  what  a 
wretch  is  he  who  must  survive  his  hopes ! 
Nothing  remains  when  that  day  comes,  but 
to  sit  down  and  weep  like  Alexander,  when 
he  wanted  other  worlds  to  conquer. 

Mrs.   Mar.     Will  you  not  follow  'em? 

Fain.     Faith,   I   think  not. 

Mrs.  Mar.     Pray  let  us;   I  have  a  reason. 

Fain.     You   are  not  jealous? 

Mrs.   Mar.     Of  whom? 

Fain.     Of  Mirabell. 

Mrs.  Mar.  If  I  am,  is  it  inconsistent  with 
my  love  to  you  that  I  am  tender  of  your 
honor  ? 

Fain.  You  would  intimate,  then,  as  if 
there  were  a  fellow-feeling  between  my  wife 
and  him. 

Mrs.  Mar.  I  think  she  does  not  hate  him 
to  that  degree  she  would  be  thought. 

Fain.     But  he,  I  fear,  is  too  insensible. 

Mrs.    Mar.     It    may    be    you    are    deceived. 

Fain.  It  may  be  so.  I  do  not  now  begin 
to  apprehend  it. 

Mrs.  Mar.     What? 

Fain.  That  I  have  been  deceived,  madam, 
and  you  are  false. 

Mrs.  Mar.  That  I  am  false!  What  mean 
you? 

Fain.  To  let  you  know  I  see  through  all 
your  little  arts. — Come,  you  both  love  him; 
and  both  have  equally  dissembled  your  aver- 
sion. Your  mutual  jealousies  of  one  another 
have  made  you  clash  till  you  have  both 
struck  fire.  I  have  seen  the  warm  confes- 
sion reddening  on  your  cheeks,  and  sparkling 
from  your  eyes. 

Mrs.  Mar.     You  do  me  wrong. 

Fain.  I  do  not.  'Twas  for  my  ease  to 
oversee  and  wilfully  neglect  the  gross  ad- 
vances made  him  by  my  wife;  that  by  per- 
mitting her  to  be  engaged,  I  might  continue 
unsuspected  in  my  pleasures;  and  take  you 


oftener  to  my  arms  in  full  security.  But 
could  you  think,  because  the  nodding  hus- 
band would  not  wake,  that  e'er  the  watchful 
lover  slept? 

Mrs.  Mar.  And  wherewithal  can  you  re- 
proach me? 

Fiiin.  With  infidelity,  with  loving  another, 
with  love  of  Mirabell. 

Mrs.  Mar.  'Tis  false!  I  challenge  you  to 
show  an  instance  that  can  confirm  your 
groundless  accusation.  I  hate  him. 

Fain.  And  wherefore  do  you  hate  him? 
He  is  insensible,  and  your  resentment  fol- 
lows his  neglect.  An  instance!  the  injuries 
you  have  done  him  are  a  proof:  your  inter- 
posing in  his  love.  What  cause  had  you  to 
make  discoveries  of  his  pretended  passion  ? 
To  undeceive  the  credulous  aunt,  and  be  the 
officious  obstacle  of  his  match  with  Milla- 
mant? 

Mrs.  Mar.  My  obligations  to  my  lady 
urged  me;  I  had  professed  a  friendship  to 
her;  and  could  not  see  her  easy  nature  so 
abused  by  that  dissembler. 

Fain.  What,  was  it  conscience,  then? 
Professed  a  friendship!  O,  the  pious  friend- 
ships of  the  female  sex! 

Mrs.  Mar.  More  tender,  more  sincere,  and 
more  enduring  than  all  the  vain  and  empty 
vows  of  men,  whether  professing  love  to  us 
or  mutual  faith  to  one  another. 

Fain.  Ha!  ha!  ha!  You  are  my  wife's 
friend,  too. 

Mrs.  Mar.  Shame  and  ingratitude!  Do 
you  reproach  me?  You,  you  upbraid  me? 
Have  I  been  false  to  her,  through  strict 
fidelity  to  you,  and  sacrificed  my  friendship 
to  keep  my  love  inviolate?  And  have 
you  the  baseness  to  charge  me  with  the 
guilt,  unmindful  of  the  merit?  To  you  it 
should  be  meritorious,  that  I  have  been 
vicious:  and  do  you  reflect  that  guilt  upon 
me,  which  should  lie  buried  in  your  bosom  ? 

Fain.  You  misinterpret  my  reproof.  I 
meant  but  to  remind  you  of  the  slight  ac- 
count you  once  could  make  of  strictest  ties, 
when  set  in  competition  with  your  love  to 
me. 

Mrs.  Mar.  'Tis  false,  you  urged  it  with 
deliberate  malice!  'twas  spoken  in  scorn, 
and  I  never  will  forgive  it. 

Fain.  Your  guilt,  not  your  resentment, 
begets  your  rage.  If  yet  you  loved,  you 
could  forgive  a  jealousy:  but  you  are  stung 
to  find  you  are  discovered. 

Mrs.  Mar.  It  shall  be  all  discovered.  You 
too  shall  be  discovered;  be  sure  you  shall. 
I  can  but  be  exposed. — If  I  do  it  myself  I 
shall  prevent  your  baseness. 

Fain.     Why,    what    will    you    do? 

Mrs.  Mar.  Disclose  it  to  your  wife;  own 
what  has  passed  between  us. 

Fain.     Frenzy! 

Mrs.   Mar.     By   all   my   wrongs   I'll   do't! — 


130 


THE  WAY  OF  THE  WORLD 


ACT  II,  Sc.  I. 


I'll  publish  to  the  world  the  injuries  you 
have  done  me,  both  in  my  fame  and  fortune! 
With  both  I  trusted  you,  you  bankrupt  in 
honor,  as  indigent  of  wealth. 

Fain.  Your  fame  I  have  preserved:  your 
fortune  has  been  bestowed  as  the  prodigality 
of  your  love  would  have  it,  in  pleasures 
which  we  both  have  shared.  Yet,  had  not 
you  been  false,  I  had  ere  this  repaid  it — 'tis 
true — had  you  permitted  Mirabell  with  Milla- 
mant  to  have  stolen  their  marriage,  my  lady 
had  been  incensed  beyond  all  means  of  recon- 
cilement: Millamant  had  forfeited  the  moiety 
of  her  fortune;  which  then  would  have  de- 
scended to  my  wife;  and  wherefore  did  I 
marry,  but  to  make  lawful  prize  of  a  rich 
widow's  wealth,  and  squander  it  on  love  and 
you? 

Mrs.   Mar.     Deceit  and   frivolous  pretence ! 

Fain.  Death,  am  I  not  married?  What's 
pretence?  Am  I  not  imprisoned,  fettered? 
Have  I  not  a  wife?  nay  a  wife  that  was  a 
widow,  a  young  widow,  a  handsome  widow; 
and  would  be  again  a  widow,  but  that  I  have 
a  heart  of  proof,  and  something  of  a  con- 
stitution to  bustle  through  the  ways  of  wed- 
lock and  this  world !  Will  you  yet  be  recon- 
ciled to  truth  and  me? 

Mrs.  Mar.  Impossible.  Truth  and  you  are 
inconsistent:  I  hate  you,  and  shall  for  ever. 

Fain.     For  loving  you  ? 

Mrs.  Mar.  I  loathe  the  name  of  love  after 
such  usage;  and  next  to  the  guilt  with  which 
you  would  asperse  me,  I  scorn  you  most. 
Farewell ! 

Fain.     Nay,    we    must    not   part   thus. 

Mrs.  Mar.     Let  me  go. 

Fain.     Come,    I'm    sorry. 

Mrs.  Mar.  I  care  not— let  me  go— break  my 
hands,  do — I'd  leave  'em  to  get  loose. 

Fain.  I  would  not  hurt  you  for  the  world. 
Have  I  no  other  hold  to  keep  you  here? 

Mrs.  Mar.     Well,  I  have  deserved  it  all. 

Fain.     You  know  I  love  you. 

Mrs.  Mar.  Poor  dissembling ! — Oh,  that — 
well,  it  is  not  yet- 
Fain.  What?  What  is  it  not?  What  is  it 
not  yet?  It  is  not  yet  too  late — 

Mrs.  Mar.  No,  it  is  not  yet  too  late; — I 
have  that  comfort. 

Fain.     It  is,  to  love  another. 

Mrs.  Mar.  But  not  to  loathe,  detest, 
abhor  mankind,  myself,  and  the  whole 
treacherous  world. 

Fain.  Nay,  this  is  extravagance. — Come,  I 
ask  your  pardon — no  tears — I  was  to  blame, 
I  could  not  love  you  and  be  easy  in  my 
doubts.  Pray  forbear — I  believe  you;  I'm 
convinced  I've  done  you  wrong;  and  any- 
way, every  way  will  make  amends.  I'll  hate 
my  wife  yet  more,  damn  her!  I'll  part  with 
her,  rob  her  of  all  she's  worth,  and  we'll  re- 
tire somewhere,  anywhere,  to  another  world. 
I'll  marry  thee— be  pacified.— 'Sdeath  they 


come,  hide  your  face,  your  tears; — you  have 
a  mask,  wear  it  a  moment.  This  way,  this 
way— be  persuaded.  [Exeunt. 

Enter  MIRABELL  and  MRS.  FAINALL. 

Mrs.   Fain.     They   are  here  yet. 

Mir.     They  are  turning  into  the  other  walk. 

Mrs.  Fain.  While  I  only  hated  my  hus- 
band, I  could  bear  to  see  him;  but  since  I 
have  despised  him,  he's  too  offensive. 

Mir.     O,    you    should    hate    with    prudence. 

Mrs.  Fain.  Yes,  for  I  have  loved  with  in- 
discretion. 

Mir.  ,  You  should  have  just  so  much  dis- 
gust for  your  husband,  as  may  be  sufficient 
to  make  you  relish  your  lover. 

Mrs.  Fain.  You  have  been  the  cause  that 
I  have  loved  without  bounds,  and  would  you 
set  limits  to  that  aversion  of  which  you  have 
been  the  occasion?  Why  did  you  make  me 
marry  this  man? 

Mir.  Why  do  we  daily  commit  disagree- 
able and  dangerous  actions?  To  save  that 
idol,  reputation.  If  the  familiarities  of  our 
loves  had  produced  that  consequence  of  which 
you  were  apprehensive,  where  could  you 
have  fixed  a  father's  name  with  credit,  but 
on  a  husband?  I  knew  Fainall  to  be  a  man 
lavish  of  his  morals,  an  interested  and  pro- 
fessing friend,  a  false  and  a  designing  lover; 
yet  one  whose  wit  and  outward  fair  be- 
havior have  gained  a  reputation  with  the 
town  enough  to  make  that  woman  stand 
excused  who  has  suffered  herself  to  be  won 
by  his  addresses.  A  better  man  ought  not 
to  have  been  sacrificed  to  the  occasion;  a 
worse  had  not  answered  to  the  purpose. 
When  you  are  weary  of  him,  you  know  your 
remedy. 

Mrs.  Fain.  1  ought  to  stand  in  some  de- 
gree of  credit  with  you,  Mirabell. 

Mir.  In  justice  to  you,  I  have  made  you 
privy  to  my  whole  design,  and  put  it  in 
your  power  to  ruin  or  advance  my  fortune. 

Mrs.  Fain.  Whom  have  you  instructed  to 
represent  your  pretended  uncle? 

Mir.     Waitwell,    my   servant. 

Mrs.  Fain.  He  is  an  humble  servant  to 
Foible  my  mother's  woman,  and  may  win 
her  to  your  interest. 

Mir.  Care  is  taken  for  that — she  is  won 
and  worn  by  this  time.  They  were  married 
this  morning. 

Mrs.   Fain.     Who? 

Mir.  Waitwell  and  Foible.  I  would  not 
tempt  my  servant  to  betray  me  by  trusting 
him  too  far.  If  your  mother,  in  hopes  to 
ruin  me,  should  consent  to  marry  my  pre- 
tended uncle,  he  might,  like  Mosca  in  The 
Fox,  stand  upon  terms;  so  I  made  him  sure 
beforehand. 

Mrs.  Fain.  So  if  my  poor  mother  is  caught 
in  a  contract,  you  will  discover  the  im- 
posture betimes,  and  release  her  by  produc- 


131 


ACT  II,  Sc.  I. 


THE  WAY  OF  THE  WORLD 


ing    a    certificate    of    her     gallant's     former 
marriage  ? 

Mir.  Yes,  upon  condition  that  she  con- 
sent to  my  marriage  with  her  niece,  and 
surrender  the  moiety  of  her  fortune  in  her 
possession. 

Mrs.  Fain.  She  talked  last  night  of  en- 
deavoring at  a  match  between  Millamant 
and  your  uncle. 

Mir.  That  was  by  Foible's  direction,  and 
my  instruction,  that  she  might  seem  to  carry 
it  more  privately. 

Mrs.  Fain.  Well,  I  have  an  opinion  of  your 
success;  for  I  believe  my  lady  will  do  any- 
thing to  get  an  husband;  and  when  she  has 
this,  which  you  have  provided  for  her,  I  sup- 
pose she  will  submit  to  anything  to  get  rid 
of  him. 

Mir.  Yes,  I  think  the  good  lady  would 
marry  anything  that  resembled  a  man, 
though  'twere  no  more  than  what  a  butler 
could  pinch  out  of  a  napkin. 

Mrs.  Fain.  Female  frailty!  We  must  all 
come  to  it,  if  we  live  to  be  old,  and  feel 
the  craving  of  a  false  appetite  when  the  true 
is  decayed. 

Mir.  An  old  woman's  appetite  is  depraved 
like  that  of  a  girl — 'tis  the  green  sickness  of 
a  second  childhood;  and,  like  the  faint  offer 
of  a  latter  spring,  serves  but  to  usher  in 
the  fall,  and  withers  in  an  affected  bloom. 

Mrs.  Fain.     Here's  your  mistress. 
[Enter    MRS.    MILLAMANT,    WITWOUD,    and 
MINCING. 

Mir.  Here  she  comes,  i'faith,  full  sail, 
•with  her  fan  spread  and  streamers  out,  and 
a  shoal  of  fools  for  tenders;  ha,  no,  I  cry  her 
mercy ! 

Mrs.  Fain.  I  see  but  one  poor  empty 
sculler;  and  he  tows  her  woman  after  him. 

Mir.  You  seem  to  be  unattended,  madam 
— you  used  to  have  the  beau  monde  throng 
after  you;  and  a  flock  of  gay  fine  perukes 
hovering  round  you. 

U'it.  Like  moths  about  a  candle. — I  had 
like  to  have  lost  my  comparison  for  want  of 
breath. 

Mrs.  Mil.  O,  I  have  denied  myself  airs 
to-day,  I  have  walked  as  fast  through  the 
crowd — 

Wit.  As  a  favorite  just  disgraced;  and 
with  as  few  followers. 

Mrs.  Mil.  Dear  Mr.  Witwoud,  truce  with 
your  similitudes;  for  I'm  as  sick  of  'em — 

U'it.  As  a  physician  of  a  good  air. — I 
cannot  help  it,  madam,  though  'tis  against 
myself. 

Mrs.  Mil.  Yet,  again!  Mincing,  stand  be- 
tween me  and  his  wit. 

Wit.  Do,  Mrs.  Mincing,  like  a  screen  be- 
fore a  great  fire. — I  confess  I  do  blaze  to-day; 
I  am  too  bright. 

Mrs.  Fain.  But,  dear  Millamant,  why  were 
you  so  long? 


Mrs.  Mil.  Long!  Lord,  have  I  not  made 
violent  haste;  I  have  asked  every  living 
thing  I  met  for  you;  I  have  inquired  after 
you,  as  after  a  new  fashion. 

U'it.  Madam,  truce  with  your  simili- 
tudes.— No,  you  met  her  husband,  and  did 
not  ask  him  for  her. 

Mrs.  Mil.  By  your  leave,  Witwoud,  that 
were  like  inquiring  after  an  old  fashion,  to 
ask  a  husband  for  his  wife. 

U'it.  Hum,  a  hit!  a  hit!  a  palpable  hit! 
I  confess  it. 

Mrs.  Fain.  You  were  dressed  before  I 
came  abroad. 

Mrs.  Mil.  Ay,  that's  true.— O,  but  then  I 
had — Mincing,  what  had  I?  Why  was  I  so 
long? 

Min.  O  mem,  your  la'ship  stayed  to 
peruse  a  packet  of  letters. 

Mrs.  Mil.  O,  ay,  letters— I  had  letters— I 
am  persecuted  with  letters— I  hate  letters.— 
Nobody  knows  how  to  write  letters,  and  yet 
one  has  'em,  one  does  not  know  why.  They 
serve  one  to  pin  up  one's  hair. 

Wit.  Is  that  the  way?  Pray,  madam,  do 
you  pin  up  your  hair  with  all  your  letters? 
I  find  I  must  keep  copies. 

Mrs.  Mil.  Only  with  those  In  verse,  Mr. 
Witwoud;  I  never  pin  up  my  hair  with  prose. 
— I  think  I  tried  once,  Mincing. 

Min.     O  mem,  I  shall  never  forget  it. 
Mrs.   Mil.     Ay,  poor  Mincing   tift  and   tift 
all  the  morning. 

Min.  Till  I  had  the  cramp  in  my  fingers, 
I'll  vow,  mem:  and  all  to  no  purpose.  But 
when  your  la'ship  pins  it  up  with  poetry,  it 
sits  so  pleasant  the  next  day  as  anything, 
and  is  so  pure  and  so  crips. 
Wit.  Indeed,  so  crips? 

Min.  You're  such  a  critic,  Mr.  Witwoud. 
Mrs.  Mil.  Mirabell,  did  you  take  excep- 
tions last  night?  O,  ay,  and  went  away. — 
Now  I  think  on't  I'm  angry— no,  now  I 
think  on't  I'm  pleased — for  I  believe  I  gave 
you  some  pain. 

Mir.     Does  that  please  you? 
Mrs.    Mil.     Infinitely;    I   love   to   give   pain. 
Mir.     You  would  affect  a  cruelty  which   is 
not  in   your  nature;   your  true   vanity   is  in 
the   power  of   pleasing. 

Mrs.  Mil.  Oh,  I  ask  your  pardon  for  that 
— one's  cruelty  is  one's  power;  and  when  one 
parts  with  one's  cruelty,  one  parts  with 
one's  power;  and  when  one  has  parted  with 
that,  I  fancy  one's  old  and  ugly. 

Mir.  Ay,  ay,  suffer  your  cruelty  to  ruin 
the  object  of  your  power,  to  destroy  your 
lover — and  then  how  vain,  how  lost  a  thing 
you'll  be!  Nay,  'tis  true:  you  are  no  longer 
handsome  when  you've  lost  your  lover;  your 
beauty  dies  upon  the  instant;  for  beauty  is 
the  lover's  gift;  'tis  he  bestows  your  charms 
— your  glass  is  all  a  cheat.  The  ugly  and 
the  old,  whom  the  looking-glass  mortifies, 


132 


THE  WAY  OF  THE  WORLD 


ACT  II,  Sc.  I. 


yet  after  commendation  can  be  flattered  by 
it,  and  discover  beauties  in  it;  for  that  re- 
flects our  praises,  rather  than  your  face. 

Mrs.  Mil.  Oh,  the  vanity  of  these  men!— 
Fainall,  d'ye  hear  him?  If  they  did  not 
commend  us,  we  were  not  handsome!  Now 
you  must  know  they  could  not  commend  one, 
if  one  was  not  handsome.  Beauty  the  lover's 
gift! — Lord,  what  is  a  lover,  that  it  can  give? 
Why,  one  makes  lovers  as  fast  as  one 
pleases,  and  they  live  as  long  as  one  pleases, 
and  they  die  as  soon  as  one  pleases;  and 
then,  if  one  pleases,  one  makes  more. 

Wit.  Very  pretty.  Why,  you  make  no 
more  of  making  of  lovers,  madam,  than  of 
making  so  many  card-matches. 

Mrs.  Mil.  One  no  more  owes  one's  beauty 
to  a  lover,  than  one's  wit  to  an  echo.  They 
can  but  reflect  what  we  look  and  say;  vain 
empty  things  if  we  are  silent  or  unseen,  and 
want  a  being. 

Mir.  Yet  to  those  two  vain  empty  things 
you  owe  the  two  greatest  pleasures  of  your 
life. 

Mrs.  Mil.     Ho.w  so? 

Mir.  To  your  lover  you  owe  the  pleasure 
of  hearing  yourselves  praised;  and  to  an 
echo  the  pleasure  of  hearing  yourselves  talk. 

Wit.  But  I  know  a  lady  that  loves  talking 
so  incessantly,  she  won't  give  an  echo  fair 
play;  she  has  that  everlasting  rotation  of 
tongue,  that  an  echo  must  wait  till  she  dies, 
before  it  can  catch  her  last  words. 

Mrs.  Mil.  Oh,  fiction !— Fainall,  let  us 
leave  these  men. 

Mir.     Draw   off  Witwoud. 

[Aside  to  MRS.  FAINALL. 

Mrs.  Fain.  Immediately. — I  have  a  word 
or  two  for  Mr.  Witwoud. 

[Exeunt  MRS.   FAINALL  and  WITWOUD. 

Mir.  I  would  beg  a  little  private  audience 
too. — You  had  the  tyranny  to  deny  me  last 
night;  though  you  knew  I  came  to  impart  a 
secret  to  you  that  concerned  my  love. 

Mrs.   Mil.     You   saw  I   was   engaged. 

Mir.  Unkind!  You  had  the  leisure  to 
entertain  a  herd  of  fools;  things  who  visit 
you  from  their  excessive  idleness;  bestowing 
on  your  easiness  that  time  which  is  the 
encumbrance  of  their  lives.  How  can  you 
find  delight  in  such  society?  It  is  impos- 
sible they  should  admire  you,  they  are  not 
capable:  or  if  they  were,  it  should  be  to  you 
as  a  mortification;  for  sure  to  please  a  fool 
is  some  degree  of  folly. 

Mrs.  Mil.  I  please  myself: — besides,  some- 
times to  converse  with  fools  is  for  my  health. 

Mir.  Your  health!  Is  there  a  worse  dis- 
ease than  the  conversion  of  fools  ? 

Mrs.  Mil.  Yes,  the  vapors;  fools  are 
physic  for  it,  next  to  assafcetida. 

Mir.     You  are  not  in  a  course  of  fools? 

Mrs.  Mil.  Mirabell,  if  you  persist  in  this 
offensive  freedom,  you'll  displease  me.— I 


I    would    give    something    that    you 


think   I   must   resolve,  after   all,   not   to  have 
you;  we  shan't  agree. 

Mir,     Not    in    our   physic,    it    may    be. 

Mrs.  Mil.  And  yet  our  distemper,  in  all 
likelihood,  will  be  the  same;  for  we  shall  be 
sick  of  one  another.  I  shan't  endure  to  be 
reprimanded  nor  instructed:  'tis  so  dull  to. 
act  always  by  advice,  and  so  tedious  to  be 
told  of  one's  faults — I  can't  bear  it.  Well,  I 
won't  have  you,  Mirabell, — I'm  resolved— I 
think — you  may  go. — Ha !  ha !  ha !  What 
would  you  give,  that  you  could  help  loving 
me? 

Mir. 
did  not  know  I  could  not   help  it. 

Mrs.  Mil.  Come,  don't  look  grave,  then. 
Well,  what  do  you  say  to  me? 

Mir.  I  say  that  a  man  may  as  soon 
make  a  friend  by  his  wit,  or  a  fortune  by 
his  honesty,  as  win  a  woman  with  plain 
dealing  and  sincerity. 

Mrs.  Mil.  Sententious  Mirabell !— Prithee, 
don't  look  with  that  violent  and  inflexible 
wise  face,  like  Solomon  at  the  dividing  of 
the  child  in  an  old  tapestry  hanging. 

Mir.  You  are  merry,  madam,  but  I  would 
persuade  you  for  a  moment  to  be  serious. 

Mrs.  Mil.  What,  with  that  face?  No,  if 
you  keep  your  countenance,  'tis  impossible  I 
should  hold  mine.  Well,  after  all,  there  is 
something  very  moving  in  a  love-sick  face. 
Ha!  ha!  ha!— Well,  I  won't  laugh,  don't  be 
peevish — Heigho !  now  I'll  be  melancholy,  as 
melancholy  as  a  watch-light.  Well,  Mirabell, 
if  ever  you  will  win  me  woo  me  now. — Nay, 
if  you  are  so  tedious,  fare  you  well; — I  see 
they  are  walking  away. 

Mir.  Can  you  not  find  in  the  variety  of 
your  disposition  one  moment — 

Mrs.  Mil.  To  hear  you  tell  me  Foible's 
married,  and  your  plot  like  to  speed — no. 

Mir.     But   how  you  came   to   know   it — 

Mrs.  Mil.  Without  the  help  of  the  devil, 
you  can't  imagine;  unless  she  should  tell 
me  herself.  Which  of  the  two  it  may  have 
been  I  will  leave  you  to  consider;  and  when 
you  have  done  thinking  of  that,  think  of  me. 

lExit. 

Mir.  I  have  something  more. — Gone! — 
Think  of  you?  To  think  of  a  whirlwind, 
though't  were  in  a  whirlwind,  were  a  case 
of  more  steady  contemplation;  a  very  tran- 
quillity of  mind  and  mansion.  A  fellow  that 
lives  in  a  windmill,  has  not  a  more  whimsical 
dwelling  than  the  heart  of  a  man  that  is 
lodged  in  a  woman.  There  is  no  point  of 
the  compass  to  which  they  cannot  turn,  and 
by  which  they  are  not  turned;  and  by  one 
as  well  as  another;  for  motion,  not  method, 
is  their  occupation.  To  know  this,  and  yet 
continue  to  be  in  love,  is  to  be  made  wise 
from  the  dictates  of  reason,  and  yet  persevere 
to  play  the  fool  by  the  force  of  instinct. — 
Oh,  here  come  my  pair  of  turtles ! — What, 


133 


ACT  III.  Sc.  I. 


THE  WAY  OF  THE  WORLD 


billing  so  sweetly!  Is  not  Valentine's  Day 
over  with  you  yet? 

Enter  WAITWELL  and  FOIBLE. 

Sirrah,  Waitwell,  why  sure  you  think  you 
were  married  for  your  own  recreation,  and 
not  for  my  conveniency. 

Wait.  Your  pardon,  sir.  With  submis- 
sion, we  have  indeed  been  solacing  in  lawful 
delights;  but  still  with  an  eye  to  business, 
sir.  I  have  instructed  her  as  well  as  I 
could.  If  she  can  take  your  directions  as 
readily  as  my  instructions,  sir,  your  affairs 
are  in  a  prosperous  way. 

Mir.     Give   you  joy,   Mrs.  Foible. 

Foib.  Oh,  'las,  sir,  I'm  so  ashamed! — I'm 
afraid  my  lady  has  been  in  a  thousand  in- 
quietudes for  me.  But  I  protest,  sir,  I  made 
as  much  haste  as  I  could. 

Wait.  That  she  did  indeed,  sir.  It  was 
my  fault  that  she  did  not  make  more. 

Mir.     That   I   believe. 

Foib.  But  I  told  my  lady  as  you  in- 
structed me,  sir,  that  I  had  a  prospect  of 
seeing  Sir  Rowland  your  uncle;  and  that  I 
would  put  her  ladyship's  picture  in  my 
pocket  to  show  him;  which  I'll  be  sure  to  say 
has  made  him  so  enamored  of  her  beauty, 
that  he  burns  with  impatience  to  lie  at  her 
ladyship's  feet,  and  worship  the  original. 

Mir.  Excellent  Foible!  Matrimony  has 
made  you  eloquent  in  love. 

Wait.  I  think  she  has  profited,  sir,  I 
think  so. 

Foib.  You  have  seen  Madam  Millamant, 
sir? 

Mir.     Yes. 

Foib.  I  told  her,  sir,  because  I  did  not 
know  that  you  might  find  an  opportunity; 
she  had  so  much  company  last  night. 

Mir.  Your  diligence  will  merit  more — in 
the  meantime —  [Gives  money. 

Foib.     O  dear  sir,  your  humble  servant! 

Wait.     Spouse. 

Mir.  Stand  off,  sir,  not  a  penny!— Go  on 
and  prosper,  Foible: — the  lease  shall  be  made 
good,  and  the  farm  stocked,  if  we  succeed. 

Foib.  I  don't  question  your  generosity, 
sir:  and  you  need  not  doubt  of  success.  If 
you  have  no  more  commands,  sir,  I'll  be 
gone;  I'm  sure  my  lady  is  at  her  toilet,  and 
can't  dress  till  I  come. — O  dear,  I'm  sure 
that  [Looking  out]  was  Mrs.  Marwood  that 
went  by  in  a  mask!  If  she  has  seen  me  with 
you  I'm  sure  she'll  tell  my  lady.  I'll  make 
haste  home  and  prevent  her.  Your  servant, 
sir.— B'w'y,  Waitwell.  [Exit. 

Wait.  Sir  Rowland,  if  you  please.— The 
jade's  so  pert  upon  her  preferment  she  for- 
gets herself. 

Mir.  Come,  sir,  will  you  endeavor  to 
forget  yourself,  and  transform  into  Sir 
Rowland  ? 

Wait.     Why,    sir,    it    will    be    impossible    I 


should  remember  myself.— Married,  knighted, 
and  attended  all  in  one  day!  'tis  enough  to 
make  any  man  forget  himself.  The  difficulty 
will  be  how  to  recover  my  acquaintance  and 
familiarity  with  my  former  self,  and  fall 
from  my  transformation  to  a  reformation 
into  Waitwell.  Nay,  I  shan't  be  quite  the 
same  Waitwell  neither;  for  now,  I  remember 
me,  I'm  married,  and  can't  be  my  own 
man  again. 

Ay,   there's  my  grief;   that's   the   sad   change 

of  life, 
To  lose  my  title,  and  yet  keep  my  wife. 

[Exeunt. 

ACT  III 

SCENE  I 

A  Room  in  LADY  WISHFORT'S  House. 
LADY    WISHFORT    at    her    toilet,    PEG    waiting. 

Lady  Wish.  Merciful!  no  news  of  Foible 
yet? 

Peg.     No,  madam. 

Lady  Wish.  I  have  no  more  patience. — If 
I  have  not  fretted  myself  till  I  am  pale 
again,  there's  no  veracity  in  me!  Fetch  me 
the  red— the  red,  do  you  hear,  sweetheart?— 
An  arrant  ash-color,  as  I  am  a  person! 
Look  you  how  this  wench  stirs! — Why  dost 
thou  not  fetch  me  a  little  red?  Didst  thou 
not  hear  me,  Mopus? 

Peg.  The  red  ratafia,  does  your  ladyship 
mean,  or  the  cherry-brandy? 

Lady  Wish.  Ratafia,  fool!  No,  fool.  Not 
the  ratafia,  fool — grant  me  patience! — I  mean 
the  Spanish  paper,  idiot — complexion,  darling. 
Paint,  paint,  paint,  dost  thou  understand 
that,  changeling,  dangling  thy  hands  like 
bobbins  before  thee?  Why  dost  thou  not 
stir,  puppet?  Thou  wooden  thing  upon 
wires ! 

Peg.  Lord,  madam,  your  ladyship  is  so 
impatient!— I  cannot  come  at  the  paint, 
madam;  Mrs.  Foible  has  locked  it  up,  and 
carried  the  key  with  her. 

Lady  Wish.  A  pox  take  you  both!— Fetch 
me  the  cherry-brandy  then.  [Exit  PEG.] 
I'm  as  pale  and  as  faint,  I  look  like  Mrs. 
Qualmsick,  the  curate's  wife,  that's  always 
breeding.— Wench,  come,  come,  wench,  what 
art  thou  doing?  sipping,  tasting  ?— Save 
thee,  dost  thou  not  know  the  bottle? 

Re-enter   PEG   with   a   bottle   and   china   cup. 

Peg.     Madam,  I  was  looking  for  a  cup. 

Lady  Wish.  A  cup,  save  thee!  and  what 
a  cup  hast  thou  brought !— Dost  thou  take 
me  for  a  fairy,  to  drink  out  of  an  acorn? 
Why  didst  thou  not  bring  thy  thimble? 
Hast  thou  ne'er  a  brass  thimble  clinking  in 
thy  pocket  with  a  bit  of  nutmeg? — I  warrant 


134 


THE  WAY  OF  THE  WORLD 


ACT  III,  Sc.  I. 


thee.  Come,  fill,  fill !  —  So  —  again  —  [One 
knocks.}— See  who  that  is.— Set  down  the 
bottle  first— here,  here,  under  the  table. — 
What,  wouldst  thou  go  with  the  bottle  in  thy 
hand,  like  a  tapster?  As  I  am  a  person, 
this  wench  has  lived  in  an  inn  upon  the 
road,  before  she  came  to  me,  like  Maritornes 
the  Asturian  in  Don  Quixote!— No  Foible 
yet? 

Peg.     No,  madam;  Mrs.  Marwood. 

Lady  Wish.  Oh,  Marwood;  let  her  come 
in. — Come  in,  good  Marwood. 

Enter  MRS.  MARWOOD. 

Mrs.  Mar.  I'm  surprised  to  find  your 
ladyship  in  dishabille  at  this  time  of  day. 

Lady  Wish.  Foible's  a  lost  thing;  has 
been  abroad  since  morning,  and  never  heard 
of  since. 

Mrs.  Mar.  I  saw  her  but  now,  as  I  came 
masked  through  the  park,  in  conference  with 
Mirabell. 

Lady  Wish.  With  Mirabell !— You  call  my 
blood  into  my  face,  with  mentioning  that 
traitor.  She  durst  not  have  the  confidence! 
I  sent  her  to  negotiate  an  affair,  in  which, 
if  I'm  detected,  I'm  undone.  If  that  wheed- 
ling villain  has  wrought  upon  Foible  to  de- 
tect me,  I'm  ruined.  O  my  dear  friend,  I'm 
a  wretch  of  wretches  if  I'm  detected. 

Mrs.  Mar.  O  madam,  you  cannot  suspect 
Mrs.  Foible's  integrity! 

Lady  Wish.  Oh,  he  carries  poison  in  his 
tongue  that  would  corrupt  integrity  itself! 
If  she  has  given  him  an  opportunity,  she  has 
as  good  as  put  her  integrity  into  his  hands. 
Ah,  dear  Marwood,  what's  integrity  to 
an  opportunity ?— Hark !  I  hear  her! — dear 
friend,  retire  into  my  closet,  that  I  may  ex- 
amine her  with  more  freedom. — You'll  par- 
don me,  dear  friend;  I  can  make  bold  with 
you. — There  are  books  over  the  chimney — 
Quarles  and  Prynne,  and  The  Short  View  of 
the  Stage,  with  Bunyan's  works,  to  entertain 
you. — [To  PEG.] — Go,  you  thing,  and  send 
her  in.  [Exeunt  MRS.  MARWOOD  and  PEG. 

Enter  FOIBLE. 

Lady  Wish.  O  Foible,  where  hast  thou 
been?  What  hast  thou  been  doing? 

Foib.     Madam,    I    have   seen    the   party. 

Lady  Wish.     But  what  hast  thou  done? 

Foib.  Nay,  'tis  your  ladyship  has  done, 
and  are  to  do;  I  have  only  promised.  But 
a  man  so  enamored — so  transported! — Well, 
if  worshipping  of  pictures  be  a  sin — poor  Sir 
Rowland,  I  say. 

Lady  Wish.  The  miniature  has  been 
counted  like; — but  hast  thou  not  betrayed 
me,  Foible?  Hast  thou  not  detected  me  to 
that  faithless  Mirabell  ?— What  hadst  thou 
to  do  with  him  in  the  Park?  Answer  me, 
has  he  got  nothing  out  of  thee? 


Foib.  [Aside.]  So  the  devil  has  been  be- 
forehand with  me.  What  shall  I  say? — 
[Aloud.'] — Alas,  madam,  could  I  help  it,  if  I 
met  that  confident  thing?  Was  I  in  fault? 
If  you  had  heard  how  he  used  me,  and  all 
upon  your  ladyship's  account,  I'm  sure  you 
would  not  suspect  my  fidelity.  Nay,  if  that 
had  been  the  worst,  I  could  have  borne;  but 
he  had  a  fling  at  your  ladyship  too;  and 
then  I  could  not  hold;  but  i'faith  I  gave  him 
his  own. 

Lady  Wish.  Me?  What  did  the  filthy 
fellow  say  ? 

Foib.  O  madam!  'tis  a  shame  to  say 
what  he  said — with  his  taunts  and  his  fleers, 
tossing  up  his  nose.  Humph !  (says  he) 
what,  you  are  a  hatching  some  plot  (says 
he),  you  are  so  early  abroad,  or  catering 
(says  he),  ferreting  for  some  disbanded  of- 
ficer, I  warrant. — Half-pay  is  but  thin  sub- 
sistence (says  he);— well,  what  pension  does 
your  lady  propose?  Let  me  see  (says  he), 
what,  she  must  come  down  pretty  deep  now, 
she's  superannuated  (says  he)  and — 

Lady  Wish.  Odds  my  life,  I'll  have  him, 
I'll  have  him  murdered!  I'll  have  him  poi- 
soned! Where  does  he  eat? — I'll  marry  a 
drawer  to  have  him  poisoned  in  his  wine. 
I'll  send  for  Robin  from  Locket's  imme- 
diately. 

Foib.  Poison  him!  poisoning's  too  good 
for  him.  Starve  him,  madam,  starve  him: 
marry  Sir  Rowland,  and  get  him  disinherited. 
Oh,  you  would  bless  yourself  to  hear  what 
he  said! 

Lady  Wish.     A  villain !    Superannuated ! 

Foib.  Humph  (says  he),  I  hear  you  are 
laying  designs  against  me  too  (says  he)  and 
Mrs.  Millamant  is  to  marry  my  uncle  (he 
does  not  suspect  a  word  of  your  ladyship); 
but  (says  he)  I'll  fit  you  for  that.  I  war- 
rant you  (says  he)  I'll  hamper  you  for  that 
(says  he);  you  and  your  old  frippery  too 
(says  he) ;  I'll  handle  you — 

Lady  Wish.  Audacious  villain!  Handle 
me !  would  he  durst ! — Frippery !  old  frippery ! 
Was  there  ever  such  a  foul-mouthed  fellow? 
I'll  be  married  to-morrow,  I'll  be  contracted 
to-night. 

Foib.     The  sooner  the  better,  madam. 

Lady  Wish.  Will  Sir  Rowland  be  here, 
sayest  thou?  when,  Foible? 

Foib.  Incontinently,  madam.  No  new 
sheriff's  wife  expects  the  return  of  her  hus- 
band after  knighthood  with  that  impatience 
in  which  Sir  Rowland  burns  for  the  dear 
hour  of  kissing  your  ladyship's  hand  after 
dinner. 

Lady  Wish,  Frippery!  superannuated  frip- 
pery! I'll  frippery  the  villain;  I'll  reduce 
him  to  frippery  and  rags!  a  tatterdemalion! 
I  hope  to  see  him  hung  with  tatters,  like 
a  Long-Lane  penthouse  or  a  gibbet  thief. 
A  slander-mouthed  railer!  I  warrant  the 


135 


ACT  III,  Sc.  I. 


THE  WAY  OF  THE  WORLD 


spendthrift  prodigal's  in  debt  as  much  as 
the  million  lottery,  or  the  whole  court  upon 
a  birthday.  I'll  spoil  his  credit  with  his 
tailor.  Yes,  he  shall  have  my  niece  with  her 
fortune,  he  shall. 

Foib,  He !  I  hope  to  see  him  lodge  in 
Ludgate  first,  and  angle  into  Blackfriars  for 
brass  farthings  with  an  old  mitten. 

Lady  Wish.  Ay,  dear  Foible;  thank  thee 
for  that,  dear  Foible.  He  has  put  me  out  of 
all  patience.  I  shall  never  recompose  my 
features  to  receive  Sir  Rowland  with  any 
economy  of  face.  This  wretch  has  fretted 
me  that  I  am  absolutely  decayed.  Look, 
Foible. 

Foib.  Your  ladyship  has  frowned  a  little 
too  rashly,  indeed,  madam.  There  are  some 
cracks  discernible  in  the  white  varnish. 

Lady  Wish.  Let  me  see  the  glass.— 
Cracks,  sayest  thou? — why,  I  am  errantly 
flayed — I  look  like  an  old  peeled  •wall.  Thou 
must  repair  me,  Foible,  before  Sir  Rowland 
comes,  or  I  shall  never  keep  up  to  my  pic- 
ture. 

Foib.  I  warrant  you,  madam,  a  little  art 
once  made  your  picture  like  you;  and  now  a 
little  of  the  same  art  must  make  you  like 
your  picture.  Your  picture  must  sit  for  you, 
madam. 

Lady  Wish.  But  art  thou  sure  Sir  Row- 
land will  not  fail  to  come?  Or  will  he  not 
fail  when  he  does  come?  Will  he  be  impor- 
tunate, Foible,  and  push?  For  if  he  should 
not  be  importunate,  I  shall  never  break 
decorums: — I  shall  die  with  confusion,  if  I 
am  forced  to  advance. — Oh,  no,  I  can  never 
advance! — I  shall  swoon  if  he  should  expect 
advances.  No,  I  hope  Sir  Rowland  is  better 
bred  than  to  put  a  lady  to  the  necessity  of 
breaking  her  forms.  I  won't  be  too  coy, 
neither. — I  won't  give  him  despair — but  a 
little  disdain  is  not  amiss;  a  little  scorn  is 
.  alluring. 

Foib.  A  little  scorn  becomes  your  lady- 
ship. 

Lady  Wish.  Yes,  but  tenderness  becomes 
me  best — a  sort  of  dyingness — you  see  that 
picture  has  a  sort  of  a — ha,  Foible!  a  swim- 
mingness  in  the  eye — yes,  I'll  look  so — my 
niece  affects  it;  but  she  wants  features.  Is 
Sir  Rowland  handsome?  Let  my  toilet  be 
removed — I'll  dress  above.  I'll  receive  Sir 
Rowland  here.  Is  he  handsome?  Don't 
answer  me.  I  won't  know;  I'll  be  surprised, 
I'll  be  taken  by  surprise. 

Foib.  By  storm,  madam,  Sir  Rowland's  a 
brisk  man. 

Lady  Wish.  Is  he!  O,  then  he'll  impor- 
tune, if  he's  a  brisk  man.  I  shall  save  de- 
corums if  Sir  Rowland  importunes.  I  have 
a  mortal  terror  at  the  apprehension  of  of- 
fending against  decorums.  O,  I'm  glad  he's 
a  brisk  man.  Let  my  things  be  removed, 
good  Foible.  [Exit. 


Enter  MRS.  FAINALL. 

Mrs.  Fain.  O  Foible,  I  have  been  in  a 
fright,  lest  I  should  come  too  late!  That 
devil  Marwood  saw  you  in  the  Park  with 
Mirabell,  and  I'm  afraid  will  discover  it  to 
my  lady. 

Foib.     Discover    what,    madam! 

Mrs.  Fain.  Nay,  nay,  put  not  on  that 
strange  face,  I  am  privy  to  the  whole  design, 
and  know  that  Waitwell,  to  whom  thou  wert 
this  morning  married,  is  to  personate  Mira- 
bell's  uncle,  and  as  such,  winning  my  lady, 
to  involve  her  in  those  difficulties  from 
which  Mirabell  only  must  release  her,  by  his 
making  his  conditions  to  have  my  cousin 
and  her  fortune  left  to  her  own  disposal. 

Foib.  O  dear  madam,  I  beg  your  pardon. 
It  was  not  my  confidence  in  your  ladyship 
that  was  deficient;  but  I  thought  the  former 
good  correspondence  between  your  ladyship 
and  Mr.  Mirabell  might  have  hindered  his 
communicating  this  secret. 

Mrs.    Fain.     Dear    Foible,    forget    that. 

F«ib.  O  dear  madam,  Mr.  Mirabell  is  such 
a  sweet,  winning  gentleman— but  your  lady- 
ship is  the  pattern  of  generosity.— Sweet 
lady,  to  be  so  good!  Mr.  Mirabell  cannot 
choose  but  be  grateful.  I  find  your  ladyship 
has  his  heart  still.  Now,  madam,  I  can 
safely  tell  your  ladyship  our  success;  Mrs. 
Marwood  had  told  my  lady;  but  I  warrant  I 
managed  myself;  I  turned  it  all  for  the  bet- 
ter. I  told  my  lady  that  Mr.  Mirabell  railed 
at  her;  I  laid  horrid  things  to  his  charge, 
I'll  vow;  and  my  lady  is  so  incensed  that 
she'll  be  contracted  to  Sir  Rowland  to-night, 
she  says;  I  warrant  I  worked  her  up,  that 
he  may  have  her  for  asking  for,  as  they  say 
of  a  Welsh  maidenhead. 

Mrs.   Fain.     O   rare   Foible! 

Foib.  Madam,  I  beg  your  ladyship  to  ac- 
quaint Mr.  Mirabell  of  his  success.  I  would 
be  seen  as  little  as  possible  to  speak  to  him: 
besides,  I  believe  Madam  Marwood  watches 
me. — She  has  a  month's  mind;  but  I  know 
Mr.  Mirabell  can't  abide  her.— John!—  [Calls.] 
remove  my  lady's  toilet.— Madam,  your  serv- 
ant: my  lady  is  so  impatient,  I  fear  she'll 
come  for  me  if  I  stay. 

Mrs.  Fain.  I'll  go  with  you  up  the  back- 
stairs, lest  I  should  meet  her.  ,  [Exeunt. 

Enter  MRS.   MARWOOD. 

Mrs.  Mar.  Indeed,  Mrs.  Engine,  is  it  thus 
with  you?  Are  you  become  a  go-between  of 
this  importance?  Yes,  I  shall  watch  you. 
Why  this  wench  is  the  passe-partout,  a  very 
master-key  to  everybody's  strong-box.  My 
friend  Fainall,  have  you  carried  it  so  swim- 
mingly? I  thought  there  was  something  in 
it;  but  it  seems  'tis  over  with  you.  Your 
loathing  is  not  from  a  want  of  appetite, 
then,  but  from  a  surfeit.  Else  you  could 


136 


THE  WAY  OP  THE  WORLD 


ACT  III,  So.  I. 


never  be  so  cool  to  fall  from  a  principal  to 
be  an  assistant;  to  procure  for  him!  A 
pattern  of  generosity  that,  I  confess.  Well, 
Mr.  Fainall,  you  have  met  with  your  match. 
— O  man,  man!  woman,  woman,  the  devil's 
an  ass:  if  I  were  a  painter,  I  would  draw 
him  like  an  idiot,  a  driveller  with  a  bib  and 
bells:  man  should  have  his  head  and  horns, 
and  woman  the  rest  of  him.  Poor  simple 
fiend ! — "  Madam  Marwood  has  a  month's 
mind,  but  he  can't  abide  her." — 'Twere  bet- 
ter for  him  you  had  not  been  his  confessor 
in  that  affair,  without  you  could  have  kept 
his  counsel  closer.  I  shall  not  prove  another 
pattern  of  generosity:  he  has  not  obliged 


me   to   that   with   the 


es   of   himself ! 


and  now  I'll  have  none  of  him.  Here  comes 
the  good  lady,  panting  ripe;  with  a  heart  full 
of  hope,  and  a  head  full  of  care,  like  any 
chemist  upon  the  day  of  projection. 

Enter   LADY    WISHFORT. 

Lady  Wish.  O  dear,  Marwood,  what  shall 
I  say  for  this  rude  forgetfulness  ?— but  my 
dear  friend  is  all  goodness. 

Mrs.  Mar.  No  apologies,  dear  madam,  I 
have  been  very  well  entertained. 

Lady  Wish.  As  I'm  a  person,  I  am  in  a 
very  chaos  to  think  I  should  so  forget  my- 
self: but  I  have  such  an  olio  of  affairs,  really 
I  know  not  what  to  do.— [Calls.}  Foible!— I 
expect  my  nephew,  Sir  Wilfull,  every  mo- 
ment too. — Why,  Foible! — He  means  to  travel 
for  improvement. 

Mrs.  Mar.  Methinks  Sir  Wilfull  should 
rather  think  of  marrying  than  travelling  at 
his  years.  I  hear  he  is  turned  of  forty. 

Lady  Wish.  O,  he's  in  less  danger  of  be- 
ing spoiled  by  his  travels — I  am  against  my 
nephew's  marrying  too  young.  It  will  be 
time  enough  when  he  comes  back,  and  has 
acquired  discretion  to  choose  for  himself. 

Mrs.  Mar.  Methinks  Mrs.  Millamant  and 
he  would  make  a  very  fit  match.  He  may 
travel  afterwards.  'Tis  a  thing  very  usual 
with  young  gentlemen. 

Lady  Wish.  I  promise  you  I  have  thought 
on't — and  since  'tis  your  judgment,  I'll  think 
on't  again.  I  assure  you  I  will;  I  value  your 
judgment  extremely.  On  my  word,  I'll  pro- 
pose it. 

Enter   FOIBLE. 

Lady  Wish.  Come,  come,  Foible — I  had 
forgot  my  nephew  will  be  here  before  dinner 
— I  must  make  haste. 

Foib.  Mr.  Witwoud  and  Mr.  Petulant  are 
come  to  dine  with  your  ladyship. 

Lady  Wish.  O  dear,  I  can't  appear  till 
I'm  dressed. — Dear  Marwood,  shall  I  be  free 
with  you  again,  and  beg  you  to  entertain 
'em?  I'll  make  all  imaginable  haste.  Dear 
friend,  excuse  me. 

[Exeunt  LADY  WISH,  and  FOIBLE. 


Enter  MRS.   MILLAMANT   and    MINCING. 

Mrs.  Mil.  Sure,  never  anything  was  so 
unbred  as  that  odious  man! — Marwood,  your 
servant. 

Mrs.  Mar.  You  have  a  color;  what's  the 
matter? 

Mrs.  Mil.  That  horrid  fellow,  Petulant, 
has  provoked  me  into  a  flame:  I  have  broken 
my  fan. — Mincing,  lend  me  yours;  is  not  all 
the  powder  out  of  my  hair? 

Mrs.   Mar.     No.     What  has   he  done? 

Mrs.  Mil.  Nay,  he  has  done  nothing;  he 
has  only  talked — nay,  he  has  said  noth- 
ing neither;  but  he  has  contradicted  every- 
thing that  has  been  said.  For  my  part,  I 
thought  Witwoud  and  he  would  have  quar- 
relled. 

Min.  I  vow,  mem,  I  thought  once  they 
would  have  fit. 

Mrs.  Mil.  Well,  'tis  a  lamentable  thing,  I 
swear,  that  one  has  not  the  liberty  of  choos- 
ing one's  acquaintance  as  one  does  one's 
clothes. 

Mrs.  Mar.  If  we  had  that  liberty,  we 
should  be  as  weary  of  one  set  of  acquaint- 
ance, though  never  so  good,  as  we  are  of 
one  suit  though  never  so  fine.  A  fool  and 
a  doily  stuff  would  now  and  then  find  days 
of  grace,  and  be  worn  for  variety. 

Mrs.  Mil.  I  could  consent  to  wear  'em, 
if  they  would  wear  alike;  but  fools  never 
wear  out — they  are  such  drop  de  Berri 
things!  Without  one  could  give  'em  to 
one's  chambermaid  after  a  day  or  two. 

Mrs.  Mar.  'Twere  better  so  indeed.  Or 
what  think  you  of  the  playhouse?  A  fine 
gay  glossy  fool  should  be  given  there,  like 
a  new  masking  habit,  after  the  masquerade 
is  over,  and  we  have  done  with  the  disguise. 
For  a  fool's  visit  is  always  a  disguise;  and 
never  admitted  by  a  woman  of  wit,  but  to 
blind  her  affair  with  a  lover  of  sense.  If 
you  would  but  appear  barefaced  now,  and 
own  Mirabell,  you  might  as  easily  put  off 
Petulant  and  Witwoud  as  your  hood  and 
scarf.  And  indeed,  'tis  time,  for  the  town 
has  found  it;  the  secret  is  grown  too  big  for 
the  pretence.  Tis  like  Mrs.  Primly's  great 
belly;  she  may  lace  it  down  before,  but  it 
burnishes  on  her  hips.  Indeed,  Millamant, 
you  can  no  more  conceal  it  than  my  Lady 
Strammel  can  her  face;  that  goodly  face, 
which  in  defiance  of  her  Rhenish  wine  tea, 
will  not  be  comprehended  in  a  mask. 

Mrs.  Mil.  I'll  take  my  death,  Marwood, 
you  are  more  censorious  than  a  decayed 
beauty,  or  a  discarded  toast. — Mincing,  tell 
the  men  they  may  come  up. — My  aunt  is 
not  dressing  here;  their  folly  is  less  provok- 
ing than  your  malice.  [Exit  MINCING.]  The 
town  has  found  it!  what  has  it  found?  That 
Mirabell  loves  me  is  no  more  a  secret  than 
it  is  a  secret  that  you  discovered  it  to  my 


137 


ACT  III,  Sc.  I. 


THE  WAY  OF  THE  WORLD 


aunt,  or  than  the  reason  why  you  discovered 
it  is  a  secret. 

Mrs.    Mar.     You  are  nettled. 

Mrs.    Mil.     You're    mistaken.      Ridiculous! 

Mrs.  Mar.  Indeed,  my  dear,  you'll  tear 
another  fan,  if  you  don't  mitigate  those 
violent  airs. 

Mrs.  Mil.  O,  silly!  ha!  ha!  ha!  I  could 
laugh  immoderately.  Poor  Mirabell!  His 
constancy  to  me  has  quite  destroyed  his 
complaisance  for  all  the  world  beside.  I 
swear,  I  never  enjoined  it  him  to  be  so  coy. — 
If  I  had  the  vanity  to  think  he  would  obey 
me,  I  would  command  him  to  show  more 
gallantry — 'tis  hardly  well-bred  to  be  so 
particular  on  one  hand,  and  so  insensible 
on  the  other.  But  I  despair  to  prevail,  and 
so  let  him  follow  his  own  way.  Ha!  ha!  ha! 
pardon  me,  dear  creature,  I  must  laugh,  ha! 
ha!  ha!  though  I  grant  you  'tis  a  little  bar- 
barous, ha!  ha!  ha! 

Mrs.  Mar.  What  pity  'tis  so  much  fine 
raillery,  and  delivered  with  so  significant 
gesture,  should  be  so  unhappily  directed  to 
miscarry ! 

Mrs.  Mil.  Ha?  dear  creature,  I  ask  your 
pardon — I  swear  I  did  not  mind  you. 

Mrs.  Mar.  Mr.  Mirabell  and  you  both  may 
think  it  a  thing  impossible,  when  I  shall 
tell  him  by  telling  you — 

Mrs.  Mil.  O  dear,  what?  for  it  is  the 
same  thing  if  I  hear  it— ha!  ha!  ha! 

Mrs.  Mar.  That  I  detest  him,  hate  him, 
madam. 

Mrs.  Mil.  O  madam,  why,  so  do  I — and 
yet  the  creature  loves  me,  ha !  ha !  ha ! 
How  can  one  forebear  laughing  to  think  of  it. 
— I  am  a  sibyl  if  I  am  not  amazed  to  think 
what  he  can  see  in  me.  I'll  take  my  death, 
I  think  you  are  handsomer — and  within  a 
year  or  two  as  young — if  you  could  but  stay 
for  me,  I  should  overtake  you — but  that  can- 
not be. — Well,  that  thought  makes  me  mel- 
ancholic.— Now,  I'll  be  sad. 

Mrs.  Mar.  Your  merry  note  may  be 
changed  sooner  than  you  think. 

Mrs.  Mil.    D'ye  say  so?    Then  I'm  resolved 
I'll  have  a  song  to  keep  up  my  spirits. 
Enter  MINCING. 

Min.  The  gentlemen  stay  but  to  comb, 
madam,  and  will  wait  on  you. 

'   Mrs.  Mil.     Desire   Mrs.  that  is  in  the 

next  room  to  sing  the  song  I  would  have 
learned  yesterday. — You  shall  hear  it,  madam 
— not  that  there's  any  great  matter  in  it — 
but  'tis  agreeable  to  my  humor. 

SONG 

Set  by  MR.  JOHN  ECCLES. 
Love's   but   the  frailty   of   the   mind, 

When    'tis    not    with   ambition   joined; 
A    sickly    flame,    which,    if    not    fed,    expires, 
And  feeding,  wastes  in  self-consuming  fires. 


'Tis  not  to  wound  a  wanton  boy 

Or  amorous  youth,  that  gives   the  joy; 
But  'tis  the   glory   to  have  pierced  a  swain, 
For   whom   inferior  beauties    sighed   in   vain. 

Then  I  alone  the  conquest  prize, 
When  I   insult  a  rival's   eyes: 
If  there's  delight  in  love,  'tis  when  I  see 
That    heart,    which    others    bleed    for,    bleed 
for    me. 

Enter  PETULANT   and   WITWOUD. 

Mrs.  Mil.  Is  your  animosity  composed, 
gentlemen  ? 

Wit.  Raillery,  raillery,  madam;  we  have 
no  animosity— we  hit  off  a  little  wit  now 
and  then,  but  no  animosity. — The  falling-out 
of  wits  is  like  the  falling-out  of  lovers:  we 
agree  in  the  main,  like  treble  and  bass.— 
Ha,  Petulant? 

Pet.  Ay,  in  the  main — but  when  I  have 
a  humor  to  contradict — 

Wit.  Ay,  when  he  has  a  humor  to  con- 
tradict, then  I  contradict  too.  What,  I 
know  my  cue.  Then  we  contradict  one  an- 
other like  two  battledores;  for  contradic- 
tions beget  one  another  like  Jews. 

I'd.  If  he  says  black's  black— if  I  have 
a  humor  to  say  'tis  blue— let  that  pass— all's 
one  for  that.  If  I  have  a  humor  to  prove 
it,  it  must  be  granted. 

Wit.  Not  positively  must — but  it  may- 
it  may. 

Pet.  Yes,  it  positively  must,  upon  proof 
positive. 

Wit.  Ay,  upon  proof  positive  it  must; 
but  upon  proof  presumptive  it  only  may. — 
That's  a  logical  distinction  now,  madam. 

Mrs.  Mar.  I  perceive  your  debates  are  of 
importance,  and  very  learnedly  handled. 

Pet.  Importance  is  one  thing,  and  learn- 
ing's another;  but  a  debate's  a  debate,  that 
I  assert. 

Wit.  Petulant's  an  enemy  to  learning; 
he  relies  altogether  on  his  parts. 

Pet.  No,  I'm  no  enemy  to  learning;  it 
hurts  not  me. 

Mrs.  Mar.  That's  a  sign  indeed  it's  no 
enemy  to  you. 

Pet.  No,  no,  it's  no  enemy  to  anybody 
but  them  that  have  it. 

Mrs.  Mil.  Well,  an  illiterate  man's  my 
aversion:  I  wonder  at  the  impudence  of  any 
illiterate  man  to  offer  to  make  love. 

Wit.     That  I   confess  I  wonder  at  too. 

Mrs.  Mil.  Ah!  to  marry  an  ignorant  that 
can  hardly  read  or  write! 

Pet.  Why  should  a  man  be  any  further 
from  being  married,  though  he  can't  read, 
than  he  is  from  being  hanged  ?  The  ordi- 
nary's paid  for  setting  the  psalm,  and  the 
parish  priest  for  reading  the  ceremony.  And 
for  the  rest  which  is  to  follow  in  both  cases, 


138 


THE  WAY  OF  THE  WORLD 


ACT  III,  Sc.  I. 


a    man    may    do    it    without    book— so    all's 
one    for    that. 

Mrs.  Mil.  D'ye  hear  the  creature? — Lord, 
here's  company,  I'll  be  gone. 

[Exeunt  MRS.  MIL.  and  MINCING. 

Enter  SIR  WILFULL  WITWOUD  in  a  riding  dress, 
followed  by  Footman. 

Wit.  In  the  name  of  Bartlemew  and  his 
fair,  what  have  we  here? 

Mrs.  Mar.  'Tis  your  brother,  I  fancy. 
Don't  you  know  him? 

Wit.  Not  I.— Yes,  I  think  it  is  he— I've 
almost  forgot  him;  I  have  not  seen  him 
since  the  Revolution. 

Foot.  [To  SIR  WILFULL.]  Sir,  my  lady's 
dressing.  Here's  company;  if  you  please 
to  walk  in,  in  the  mean  time. 

Sir  Wil.  Dressing!  What,  it's  but  morn- 
ing here,  I  warrant,  with  you  in  London;  we 
should  count  it  towards  afternoon  in  our 
parts,  down  in  Shropshire. — Why  then,  be- 
like, my  aunt  han't  dined  yet,  ha,  friend? 

Foot.     Your  aunt,  sir? 

Sir  Wil.  My  aunt,  sir!  Yes,  my  aunt,  sir, 
and  your  lady,  sir;  your  lady  is  my  aunt, 
sir. — Why,  what  dost  thou  not  know  me, 
friend?  why  then  send  somebody  hither  that 
does.  How  long  hast  thou  lived  with  thy 
lady,  fellow,  ha? 

Foot.  A  week,  sir;  longer  than  anybody 
in  the  house,  except  my  lady's  woman. 

Sir  Wil.  Why  then  belike  thou  dost  not 
know  thy  lady,  if  thou  seest  her,  ha,  friend? 

Foot.  Why,  truly,  sir,  I  cannot  safely 
swear  to  her  face  in  a  morning,  before  she 
is  dressed.  'Tis  like  I  may  give  a  shrewd 
guess  at*  her  by  this  time. 

Sir  Wil.  Well,  prithee  try  what  thou 
canst  do;  if  thou  canst  not  guess,  inquire 
her  out,  dost  hear,  fellow?  and  tell  her,  her 
nephew,  Sir  Wilfull  Witwoud,  is  in  the  house. 

Foot.     I    shall,    sir. 

Sir  Wil.  Hold  ye,  hear  me,  friend;  a  word 
with  you  in  your  ear;  prithee  who  are  these 
gallants  ? 

Foot.  Really,  sir,  I  can't  tell;  here  come 
so  many  here,  'tis  hard  to  know  'em  all. 

[Exit. 

Sir  Wil.  Oons,  this  fellow  knows  less 
than  a  starling;  I  don't  think  a'  knows  his 
own  name. 

Mrs.  Mar.  Mr.  Witwoud,  your  brother  is 
not  behindhand  in  forgetfulness — I  fancy  he 
has  forgot  you  too. 

Wit.  I  hope  so — the  devil  take  him  that 
remembers  first,  I  say. 

Sir    Wil.     Save   you,    gentlemen   and   lady! 

Mrs.  Mar.  For  shame,  Mr.  Witwoud; 
why  won't  you  speak  to  him?— And  you, 
sir. 

Wit.     Petulant,   speak. 

Pet.     And  you,  sir. 


Sir   Wil.     No   offence,   I  hope. 

[Salutes  MRS.  MARWOOD. 

Mrs.  Mar.     No,    sure,   sir. 

Wit.  This  is  a  vile  dog,  I  see  that  al- 
ready. No  offence!  ha!  ha!  ha!  To  him;  to 
him,  Petulant,  smoke  him. 

Pet.  It  seems  as  if  you  had  come  a 
journey,  sir;  hem,  hem. 

[Surveying  him  round. 

Sir  Wil.  Very  likely,  sir,  that  it  may 
seem  so. 

Pet.     No   offence,    I   hope,    sir. 

II  'it.  Smoke  the  boots,  the  boots;  Petu- 
lant, the  boots:  ha!  ha!  ha! 

Sir  Wil.  May  be  not,  sir;  thereafter,  as 
'tis  meant,  sir. 

Pet.  Sir,  I  presume  upon  the  information 
of  your  boots. 

Sir  Wil.  Why,  'tis  like  you  may,  sir:  if 
you  are  not  satisfied  with  the  information 
of  my  boots,  sir,  if  you  will  step  to  the 
stable,  you  may  inquire  further  of  my 
horse,  sir. 

Pet.  Your  horse,  sir!  your  horse  is  an 
ass,  sir! 

Sir  Wil.  Do  you  speak  by  way  of  offence, 
sir? 

Mrs.  Mar.  The  gentleman's  merry,  that's 
all,  sir. — [Aside.}  S'life,  we  shall  have  a 
quarrel  betwixt  an  horse  and  an  ass  before 
they  find  one  another  out. — [Aloud.]  You 
must  not  take  anything  amiss  from  your 
friends,  sir.  You  are  among  your  friends 
here,  though  it  may  be  you  don't  know  it. — 
If  I  am  not  mistaken,  you  are  Sir  Wilfull 
Witwoud. 

Sir  Wil.  Right,  lady;  I  am  Sir  Wilfull 
Witwoud,  so  I  write  myself;  no  offence  to 
anybody,  I  hope;  and  nephew  to  the  Lady 
Wishfort  of  this  mansion. 

Mrs.  Mar.  Don't  you  know  this  gentle- 
man, sir? 

Sir  Wil.  Hum!  what,  sure  'tis  not — yea 
by'r  Lady,  but  'tis— s'heart,  I  know  not 
whether  'tis  or  no — yea,  but  'tis,  by  the 
Wrekin.  Brother  Anthony!  what,  Tony, 
i'faith !  what,  dost  thou  not  know  me  ?  By'r 
Lady,  nor  I  thee,  thou  art  so  becravated, 
and  so  beperiwigged. — S'heart,  why  dost  not 
speak?  art  thou  o'erjoyed? 

Wit.  Odso,  brother,  is  it  you?  your  serv- 
ant, brother. 

Sir  Wil.  Your  servant!  why  yours,  sir. 
Your  servant  again — s'heart,  and  your  friend 
and  servant  to  that — and  a  (.puff)  and  a 
flap-dragon  for  your  service,  sir!  and  a 
hare's  foot  and  a  hare's  scut  for  your  serv- 
ice, sir!  an  you  be  so  cold  and  so  courtly. 

Wit.     No   offence,   I   hope,  brother. 

Sir  Wil.  S'heart,  sir,  but  there  is,  and 
much  offence! — A  pox,  is  this  your  inns  o' 
court  breeding,  not  to  know  your  friends 
and  your  relations,  your  elders  and  your 
betters  ? 


139 


ACT  III,  Sc.  I. 


THE  WAY  OP  THE  WORLD 


Wit.  Why,  brother  Wilfull  of  Salop,  you 
may  be  as  short  as  a  Shrewsbury-cake,  if 
you  please.  But  I  tell  you  'tis  not  modish 
to  know  relations  in  town:  you  think  you're 
in  the  country,  where  great  lubberly  broth- 
ers slabber  and  kiss  one  another  when  they 
meet,  like  a  call  of  Serjeants — 'tis  not  the 
fashion  here;  'tis  not  indeed,  dear  brother. 

Sir  Wil.  The  fashion's  a  fool;  and  you're 
a  fop,  dear  brother.  S'heart,  I've  suspected 
this — by'r  Lady,  I  conjectured  you  were  a 
fop,  since  you  began  to  change  the  style  of 
your  letters,  and  write  on  a  scrap  of  paper 
gilt  round  the  edges,  no  bigger  than  a  suh- 
ptena.  I  might  expect  this  when  you  left 
off,  "  Honored  brother ";  and  "  hoping  you 
are  in  good  health,"  and  so  forth — to  begin 
with  a  "  Rat  me,  knight,  I'm  so  sick  of  a 
last  night's  debauch  " — 'ods  heart,  and  then 
tell  a  familiar  tale  of  a  cock  and  a  bull,  and 
a  whore  and  a  bottle,  and  so  conclude. — You 
could  write  news  before  you  were  out  of 
your  time,  when  you  lived  with  honest 
Pumple  Nose  the  attorney  of  Furnival's 
Inn — you  could  entreat  to  be  remembered 
then  to  your  friends  round  the  Wrekin.  We 
could  have  gazettes,  then,  and  Dawks's  Let- 
ter, and  the  Weekly  Bill,  till  of  late  days. 

Pet.  S'life,  Witwoud,  were  you  ever  an 
attorney's  clerk?  of  the  family  of  the  Fur- 
nival  s?  Ha!  ha!  ha! 

Wit.  Ay,  ay,  but  that  was  but  for  a 
while:  not  long,  not  long.  Pshaw!  I  was  not 
in  my  own  power  then;  an  orphan,  and  this 
fellow  was  my  guardian;  ay,  ay,  I  was  glad 
to  consent  to  that,  man,  to  come  to  London: 
he  had  the  disposal  of  me  then.  If  I  had  not 
agreed  to  that,  I  might  have  been  bound 
'prentice  to  a  felt-maker  in  Shrewsbury; 
this  fellow  would  have  bound  me  to  a  maker 
of  felts. 

Sir  Wil.  S'heart,  and  better  than  to  be 
bound  to  a  maker  of  fops;  where,  I  suppose, 
you  have  served  your  time;  and  now  you 
may  set  up  for  yourself. 

Mrs.  Mar.  You  intend  to  travel,  sir,  as 
I'm  informed. 

Sir  Wil.  Belike  I  may,  madam.  I  may 
chance  to  sail  upon  the  salt  seas,  if  my  mind 
hold. 

Pet.     And   the  wind   serve. 

Sir  Wil.  Serve  or  not  serve,  I  shan't  ask 
licence  of  you,  sir;  nor  the  weathercock 
your  companion:  I  direct  my  discourse  to 


the  lady,  sir. — Tis  like  my  aunt  may  have 
told  you,  madam — yes,  I  have  settled  my 
concerns,  I  may  say  now,  and  am  minded  to 
see  foreign  parts.  If  an  how  that  the  peace 
holds,  whereby  that  is,  taxes  abate. 

Mrs.  Mar.  I  thought  you  had  designed 
for  France  at  all  adventures. 

Sir  Wil.  I  can't  tell  that;  'tis  like  I  may, 
and  'tis  like  I  may  not.  I  am  somewhat 
dainty  in  making  a  resolution — because  when 


I  make  it  I  keep  it.  I  don't  stand  shill  I, 
shall  I,  then;  if  I  say't,  I'll  do't;  but  I  have 
thoughts  to  tarry  a  small  matter  in  town, 
to  learn  somewhat  of  your  lingo  first,  before 
I  cross  the  seas.  I'd  gladly  have  a  spice 
of  your  French  as  they  say,  whereby  to  hold 
discourse  in  foreign  countries. 

Mrs.  Mar.  Here's  an  academy  in  town 
for  that  use. 

Sir    Wil.     There   is?     'Tis   like   there   may. 

Mrs.  Mar.  No  doubt  you  will  return  very 
much  improved. 

Wit.  Yes,  refined,  like  a  Dutch  skipper 
from  a  whale-fishing. 

Enter    LADY    WISHFORT    and    FAINALL. 

Lady   Wish.     Nephew,  you  are  welcome. 

Sir    Wil.     Aunt,    your    servant. 

Fain.  Sir  Wilfull,  your  most  faithful  serv- 
ant. 

Sir  Wil.     Cousin  Fainall,  give  me  your  hand. 

Lady  Wish.  Cousin  Witwoud,  your  serv- 
ant; Mr.  Petulant,  your  servant — nephew, 
you  are  welcome  again.  Will  you  drink  any- 
thing after  your  journey,  nephew;  before 
you  eat?  dinner's  almost  ready. 

Sir  Wil.  I'm  very  well,  I  thank  you,  aunt 
— however,  I  thank  you  for  your  courteous 
offer.  S'heart  I  was  afraid  you  would  have 
been  in  the  fashion  too,  and  have  remem- 
bered to  have  forgot  your  relations.  Here's 
your  cousin  Tony,  belike,  I  mayn't  call  him 
brother  for  fear  of  offence. 

Lady  Wish.  Oh,  he's  a  railleur,  nephew— 
my  cousin's  a  wit:  and  your  great  wits 
always  rally  their  best  friends  to  choose. 
When  you  have  been  abroad,  nephew,  you'll 
understand  raillery  better. 

[FAINALL    and    MRS.    MARWOOD    talk   apart. 

Sir  Wil.  Why  then  let  him  hold  his 
tongue  in  the  mean  time;  and  rail  when  that 
day  comes. 

Enter  MINCING. 

Min.  Mem,  I  am  come  to  acquaint  your 
la'ship  that  dinner  is  impatient. 

Sir  Wil.  Impatient!  why  then  belike  it 
won't  stay  till  I  pull  off  my  boots. — Sweet- 
heart, can  you  help  me  to  a  pair  of  slippers? 
— My  man's  with  his  horses,  I  warrant. 

Lady  Wish.  Fy,  fy,  nephew!  you  would 
not  pull  off  your  boots  here? — Go  down  into 
the  hall — dinner  shall  stay  for  you. — My 
nephew's  a  little  unbred,  you'll  pardon  him, 
madam. — Gentlemen,  will  you  walk? — Mar- 
wood? 

Mrs.  Mar.  I'll  follow  you,  madam — before 
Sir  Wilfull  is  ready. 

[Exeunt     all     but     MRS.     MARWOOD     and 
FAINALL. 

Fain.  Why  then,  Foible's  a  bawd,  an  er- 
rant, rank,  match-making  bawd:  and  I,  it 
seems,  am  a  husband,  a  rank  husband;  and 
my  wife  a  very  errant,  rank  wife — all  in  the 


140 


THE  WAY  OF  THE  WORLD 


ACT  IV,  Sc.  I. 


way  of  the  world.  'Sdeath,  to  be  a  cuckold 
by  anticipation,  a  cuckold  in  embryo!  sure 
I  was  born  with  budding  antlers,  like  a 
young  satyr,  or  a  citizen's  child.  .'Sdeath! 
to  be  out-witted— to  be  out-jilted— out-mat- 
rimony'd! — If  I  had  kept  my  speed  like  a 
stag,  'twere  somewhat,— but  to  crawl  after, 
with  my  horns,  like  a  snail,  and  be  out- 
stripped by  my  wife — 'tis  scurvy  wedlock. 

Mrs.  Mar.  Then  shake  it  off;  you  have 
often  wished  for  an  opportunity  to  part— 
and  now  you  have  it.  But  first  prevent  their 
plot — the  half  of  Millamant's  fortune  is  too 
considerable  to  be  parted  with,  to  a  foe,  to 
Mirabell. 

Fain.  Damn  him!  that  had  been  mine — 
had  you  not  made  that  fond  discovery — that 
had  been  forfeited,  had  they  been  married. 
My  wife  had  added  lustre  to  my  horns  by 
that  increase  of  fortune;  I  could  have  worn 
'em  tipped  with  gold,  though  my  forehead 
had  been  furnished  like  a  deputy-lieuten- 
ant's hall. 

Mrs.  Mar.  They  may  prove  a  cap  of  main- 
tenance to  you  still,  if  you  can  away  with 
your  wife.  And  she's  no  worse  than  when 
you  had  her — I  dare  swear  she  had  given  up 
her  game  before  she  was  married. 

Fain.     Hum!  that  may  be. 

Mrs.  Mar.  You  married  her  to  keep  you; 
and  if  you  can  contrive  to  have  her  keep 
you  better  than  you  expected,  why  should 
you  not  keep  her  longer  than  you  intended? 

Fain.     The  means,  the  means. 

Mrs.  Mar.  Discover  to  my  lady  your 
wife's  conduct;  threaten  to  part  with  her! — 
my  lady  loves  her,  and  will  come  to  any 
composition  to  save  her  reputation.  Take 
the  opportunity  of  breaking  it,  just  upon 
the  discovery  of  this  imposture.  My  lady 
will  be  enraged  beyond  bounds,  and  sacrifice 
niece,  and  fortune,  and  all,  at  that  con- 
juncture. And  let  me  alone  to  keep  her 
warm;  if  she  should  flag  in  her  part,  I  will 
not  fail  to  prompt  her. 

Fain.     Faith,    this   has    an   appearance. 

Mrs.  Mar.  I'm  sorry  I  hinted  to  my  lady 
to  endeavor  a  match  between  Millamant 
and  Sir  Wilfull;  that  may  be  an  obstacle. 

Fain.  Oh,  for  that  matter,  leave  me  to 
manage  him:  I'll  disable  him  for  that;  he 
will  drink  like  a  Dane;  after  dinner,  I'll  set 
his  hand  in. 

Mrs.  Mar.  Well,  how  do  you  stand  affected 
towards  your  lady  ? 

Fain.  Why,  faith,  I'm  thinking  of  it.— Let 
me  see — I  am  married  already,  so  that's  over: 
— my  wife  has  played  the  jade  with  me — 
well,  that's  over  too: — I  never  loved  her,  or  if 
I  had,  why  that  would  have  been  over  too  by 
this  time: — jealous  of  her  I  cannot  be,  for  I 
am  certain;  so  there's  an  end  of  jealousy: — 
weary  of  her  I  am,  and  shall  be — no,  there's 
no  end  of  that — no,  no,  that  were  too  much  to 


hope.  Thus  far  concerning  my  repose;  now 
for  my  reputation.  As  to  my  own,  I  married 
not  for  it,  so  that's  out  of  the  question;— 
and  as  to  my  part  in  my  wife's — why,  she 
had  parted  with  hers  before;  so  bringing 
none  to  me,  she  can  take  none  from  me; 
'tis  against  all  rule  of  play,  that  I  should 
lose  to  one  who  has  not  wherewithal  to 
stake. 

Mrs.  Mar.  Besides,  you  forget,  marriage  is 
honorable. 

Fain.  Hum,  faith,  and  that's  well  thought 
on;  marriage  is  honorable  as  you  say;  and 
if  so,  wherefore  should  cuckoldom  be  a  dis- 
credit, being  derived  from  so  honorable  a 
root? 

Mrs.  Mar.  Nay,  I  know  not;  if  the  root 
be  honorable,  why  not  the  branches  ? 

Fain.  So,  so,  why  this  point's  clear — well, 
how  do  we  proceed  ? 

Mrs.  Mar.  I  will  contrive  a  letter  which 
shall  be  delivered  to  my  lady  at  the  time 
when  that  rascal  who  is  to  act  Sir  Rowland 
is  with  her.  It  shall  come  as  from  an  un- 
known hand — for  the  less  I  appear  to  know  of 
the  truth,  the  better  I  can  play  the  incen- 
diary. Besides,  I  would  not  have  Foible 
provoked  if  I  could  help  it — because  you  know 
she  knows  some  passages — nay,  I  expect  all 
will  come  out — but  let  the  mine  be  sprung 
first,  and  then  I  care  not  if  I  am  discovered. 

Fain.  If  the  worst  come  to  the  worst — I'll 
turn  my  wife  to  grass — I  have  already  a  deed 
of  settlement  of  the  best  part  of  her  estate, 
which  I  wheedled  out  of  her;  and  that  you 
shall  partake  at  least. 

Mrs.  Mar.  I  hope  you  are  convinced  that 
I  hate  Mirabell  now;  you'll  be  no  more 
jealous  ? 

Fain.  Jealous!  no — by  this  kiss— let  hus- 
bands be  jealous;  but  let  the  lover  still  be- 
lieve; or  if  he  doubt,  let  it  be  only  to  endear 
his  pleasure,  and  prepare  the  joy  that  fol- 
lows, when  he  proves  his  mistress  true.  But 
let  husbands'  doubts  convert  to  endless 
jealousy;  or  if  they  have  beiief,  let  it  corrupt 
to  superstition  and  blind  credulity.  I  am 
single,  and  will  herd  no  more  with  'em. 
True,  I  wear  the  badge,  but  I'll  disown  the 
order.  And  since  I  take  my  leave  of  'em,  I 
care  not  if  I  leave  'em  a  common  motto  to 
their  common  crest: — 

All  husbands  must  or  pain  or  shame  endure; 
The  wise  too  jealous  are,  fools  too  secure. 

[Exeunt. 

ACT  IV 

SCENE   I 

Scene  Continues. 

Enter  LADY  WISHFORT   and   FOIBLE. 
Lady  Wish.     Is  Sir  Rowland  coming,  sayest 
thou,   Foible?     And  are  things  in  order? 


141 


ACT  IV,  Sc.  I. 


THE  WAY  OF  THE  WORLD 


Foib.  Yes,  madam,  I  have  put  wax  lights 
in  the  sconces,  and  placed  the  footmen  in  a 
row  in  the  hall,  in  their  best  liveries,  with 
the  coachman  and  postillion  to  fill  up  the 
equipage. 

Lady  Wish.  Have  you  pulvilled  the 
coachman  and  postillion,  that  they  may  not 
stink  of  the  stable  when  Sir  Rowland  comes 
by? 

Foib.     Yes,  madam. 

Lady  Wish.  And  are  the  dancers  and  the 
music  ready,  that  he  may  be  entertained  in 
all  points  with  correspondence  to  his  passion? 

Foib.     All  is  ready,  madam. 

Lady  Wish.  And— well— and  how  do  I  look, 
Foible? 

Foib.     Most    killing    well,    madam. 

Lady  Wish.  Well,  and  how  shall  I  receive 
him  ?  in  what  figure  shall  I  give  his  heart 
the  first  impression?  there  is  a  great  deal 
in  the  first  impression.  Shall  I  sit? — no,  I 
won't  sit— I'll  walk— ay,  I'll  walk  from  the 
door  upon  his  entrance;  and  then  turn  full 
upon  him— no,  that  will  be  too  sudden.  I'll 
lie, — ay,  I'll  lie  down — I'll  receive  him  in  my 
little  dressing-room,  there's  a  couch— yes, 
yes,  I'll  give  the  first  impression  on  a  couch. 
—I  won't  lie  neither,  but  loll  and  lean  upon 
one  elbow:  with  one  foot  a  little  dangling;  off, 
jogging  in  a  thoughtful  way— yes— and  then 
as  soon  as  he  appears,  start,  ay,  start  and  be 
surprised,  and  rise  to  meet  him  in  a  pretty 
disorder — yes, — O,  nothing  is  more  alluring 
than  a  levee  from  a  couch,  in  some  confu- 
sion:— it  shows  the  foot  to  advantage,  and 
furnishes  with  blushes,  and  recomposing  airs 
beyond  comparison.  Hark !  there's  a  coach. 

Foib.     Tis  he,   madam. 

Lady  Wish.  Oh,  dear! — Has  my  nephew 
made  his  addresses  to  Millamant?  I  ordered 
him. 

Foib.  Sir  Wilfull  is  set  in  to  drinking, 
madam,  in  the  parlor. 

Lady  Wish.  Odds  my  life,  I'll  send  him  to 
her.  Call  her  down,  Foible;  bring  her  hither. 
I'll  send  him  as  I  go — when  they  are  to- 
gether, then  come  to  me,  Foible,  that  I  may 
not  be  too  long  alone  with  Sir  Rowland. 

[Ex-it. 

Enter  MRS.  MILLAMANT  and  MRS.  FAINALL. 

Foib.  Madam,  I  stayed  here,  to  tell  your 
ladyship  that  Mr.  Mirabell  has  waited  this 
half  hour  for  an  opportunity  to  talk  with 
you:  though  my  lady's  orders  were  to  leave 
you  and  Sir  Wilfull  together.  Shall  I  tell 
Mr.  Mirabell  that  you  are  at  leisure? 

Mrs.  Mil.  No, — what  would  the  dear  man 
have?  I  am  thoughtful,  and  would  amuse 
myself — bid  him  come  another  time. 

"  There   never  yet  was  woman   made 
Nor   shall,   but  to   be  cursed." 

[Repeating,  and  walking  about. 
That's  hard! 


Mrs.  Fain.  You  are  very  fond  of  Sir  John 
Suckling  to-day,  Millamant,  and  the  poets. 

Mrs.  Mil.  He?  Ay,  and  filthy  verses— so 
I  am. 

Foib.  Sir  Wilfull  is  coming,  madam.  Shall 
I  send  Mr.  Mirabell  away? 

Mrs.  Mil.  Ay,  if  you  please,  Foible,  send 
him  away — or  send  him  hither— just  as  you 
will,  dear  Foible.— I  think  I'll  see  him— shall 
1?  Ay,  let  the  wretch  come.  [Exit  FOIBLE. 

"  Thy rsis,  a  youth  of  the  inspired  train." 

[Repeating. 

Dear  Fainall,  entertain  Sir  Wilfull— thou 
hast  philosophy  to  undergo  a  fool,  thou  art 
married  and  hast  patience — I  would  confer 
with  my  own  thoughts. 

Mrs.  Fain.  I  am  obliged  to  you,  that  you 
would  make  me  your  proxy  in  this  affair;  but 
I  have  business  of  my  own. 

Enter  SIR  WILFULL. 

Mrs.  Fain.  O  Sir  Wilfull,  you  are  come  at 
the  critical  instant.  There's  your  mistress 
up  to  the  ears  in  love  and  contemplation; 
pursue  your  point  now  or  never. 

Sir  Wit.  Yes;  my  aunt  will  have  it  so — I 
would  gladly  have  been  encouraged  with  a 
bottle  or  two,  because  I'm  somewhat  wary  at 
first  before  I  am  acquainted. — [This  while 
MILLAMANT  walks  about  repeating  to  herself.] 
— But  I  hope,  after  a  time,  I  shall  break  my 
mind — that  is,  upon  further  acquaintance — 
so  for  the  present,  cousin,  I'll  take  my  leave 
— if  so  be  you'll  be  so  kind  to  make  my  ex- 
cuse, I'll  return  to  my  company — 

Mrs.  Fain.  O,  fy,  Sir  Wilfull!  What,  you 
must  not  be  daunted. 

.ViV  ll'il.  Daunted!  no,  that's  not  it,  it  is 
not  so  much  for  that — for  if  so  be  that  I  set 
on't,  I'll  do't.  But  only  for  the  present,  'tis 
sufficient  till  further  acquaintance,  that's  all 
— your  servant. 

Mrs.  Fain.  Nay,  I'll  swear  you  shall  never 
lose  so  favorable  an  opportunity,'  if  I  can 
help  it.  I'll  leave  you  together,  and  lock  the 
door.  [Exit. 

Sir  Wil.  Nay,  nay,  cousin — I  have  forgot 
my  gloves — what  d'ye  do? — S'heart,  a'has 
locked  the  door  indeed,  I  think — nay,  Cousin 
Fainall,  open  the  door — pshaw,  what  a  vixen 
trick  is  this  ? — Nay,  now  a'has  seen  me  too. — 
Cousin,  I  made  bold  to  pass  through  as  it 
were — I  think  this  door's  enchanted! 

Mrs.    Mil.     [Repeating.] 

"  I  prithee  spare  me,  gentle  boy. 
Press  me  no  more  for  that  slight  toy." 

Sir  Wil.     Anan?    Cousin,  your  servant. 
Mrs.   Mil.     [Repeating.] 

"  That  foolish   trifle  of  a  heart." 
Sir  Wilfull! 


142 


THE  WAY  OF  THE  WORLD 


ACT  IV,  Sc.  I. 


Sir  Wil.  Yes— your  servant.  No  offence, 
I  hope,  cousin. 

Mrs.  Mil.   [Repeating.] 
"  1  swear  it  will  not  do  its  part, 

Though     thou    dost     thine,     employes!     thy 

power    and   art." 
Natural,   easy   Suckling! 

Sir  Wil.  Anan?  Suckling!  no  such  suck- 
ling neither,  cousin,  nor  stripling:  I  thank 
Heaven,  I'm  no  minor. 

Mrs.   Mil.     Ah,   rustic,   ruder   than   Gothic! 

Sir  Wil.  Well,  well,  I  shall  understand 
your  lingo  one  of  these  days,  cousin;  in  the 
meanwhile  I  must  answer  in  plain  English. 

Mrs.  Mil.  Have  you  any  business  with  me, 
Sir  Wilfull? 

Sir  Wil.  Not  at  present,  cousin — yes,  I 
make  bold  to  see,  to  come  and  know  if  that 
how  you  were  disposed  to  fetch  a  walk  this 
evening,  if  so  be  that  I  might  not  be  trouble- 
some, I  would  have  sought  a  walk  with  you. 

Mrs.  Mil.     A  walk!  what  then? 

Sir  Wil.  Nay,  nothing — only  for  the  walk's 
sake,  that's  all. 

Mrs.  Mil.  I  nauseate  walking;  'tis  a  coun- 
try diversion;  I  loathe  the  country,  and 
everything  that  relates  to  it. 

Sir  Wil.  Indeed!  ha!  Look  ye,  look  ye, 
you  do?  Nay,  'tis  like  you  may— here  are 
choice  of  pastimes  here  in  town,  as  plays 
and  the  like;  that  must  be  confessed  indeed. 

Mrs.  Mil.  Ah,  I'etourdi!  I  hate  the  town 
too. 

Sir  Wil.  Dear  heart,  that's  much— ha !  that 
you  should  hate  'em  both!  Ha!  'tis  like  you 
may;  there  are  some  can't  relish  the  town, 
and  others  can't  away  with  the  country — 'tis 
like  you  may  be  one  of  those,  cousin. 

Mrs.  Mil.  Ha!  ha!  ha!  yes,  'tis  like  I 
may. — You  have  nothing  further  to  say  to 
me? 

Sir  Wil.  Not  at  present,  cousin. — 'Tis  like 
when  I  have  an  opportunity  to  be  more 
private — I  may  break  my  mind  in  some 
measure — I  conjecture  you  partly  guess — 
however,  that's  as  time  shall  try — but  spare 
to  speak  and  spare  to  speed,  as  they  say. 

Mrs.  Mil.  If  it  is  of  no  great  importance, 
Sir  Wilfull,  you  will  oblige  me  to  leave  me; 
I  have  just  now  a  little  business — 

Sir  Wil.  Enough,  enough,  cousin:  yes, 
yes,  all  a  case — when  you're  disposed:  now's 
as  well  as  another  time;  and  another  time 
as  well  as  now.  All's  one  for  that — yes,  yes, 
if  your  concerns  call  you,  there's  no  haste; 
it  will  keep  cold,  as  they  say. — Cousin,  your 
servant — I  think  this  door's  locked. 

Mrs.  Mil.     You  may  go  this  way,  sir. 

Sir    Wil.     Your    servant;    then    with    your 


leave  I'll  return  to  my  company. 

Mrs.   Mil.     Ay,  ay;   ha!  ha!  ha! 
"  Like    Phoebus    sung    the    no    less 
boy." 


[Exit. 


Enter  MIRABELL. 

Mir.     "  Like  Daphne  she,  as  lovely  and  as 
coy."     Do  you  lock  yourself  up  from  me,   to 


make  my  search  more  curious?  or  is  this 
pretty  artifice  contrived  to  signify  that  here 
the  chase  must  end,  and  my  pursuit  be 
crowned?  For  you  can  fly  no  further. 

Mrs.  Mil.  Vanity!  no— I'll  fly,  and  be  fol- 
lowed to  the  last  moment.  Though  I  am  upon 
the  very  verge  of  matrimony,  I  expect  you 
should  solicit  me  as  much  as  if  I  were  wav- 
ering at  the  grate  of  a  monastery,  with  one 
foot  over  the  threshold.  I'll  be  solicited  to 
the  very  last,  nay,  and  afterwards. 

Mir.     What,  after  the  last? 

Mrs.  Mil.  Oh,  I  should  think  I  was  poor 
and  had  nothing  to  bestow,  if  I  were  reduced 
to  an  inglorious  ease,  and  freed  from  the 
agreeable  fatigues  of  solicitation. 

Mir.  But  do  not  you  know,  that  when 
favors  are  conferred  upon  instant  and  tedi- 
ous solicitation,  that  they  diminish  in  their 
value,  and  that  both  the  giver  loses  the 
grace,  and  the  receiver  lessens  his  pleasure? 

Mrs.  Mil.  It  may  be  in  things  of  common 
application;  but  never  sure  in  love.  Oh,  I 
hate  a  lover  that  can  dare  to  think  he  draws 
a  moment's  air,  independent  on  the  bounty 
of  his  mistress.  There  is  not  so  impudent 
a  thing  in  nature,  as  the  saucy  look  of  an 
assured  man,  confident  of  success.  The 
pedantic  arrogance  of  a  very  husband  has 
not  so  pragmatical  an  air.  Ah!  I'll  never 
marry,  unless  I  am  first  made  sure  of  my 
will  and  pleasure. 

Mir.  Would  you  have  'em  both  before  mar- 
riage? or  will  you  be  contented  with  the  first 
now,  and  stay  for  the  other  till  after  grace? 

Mrs.  Mil.  Ah!  don't  be  impertinent. — My 
dear  liberty,  shall  I  leave  thee?  my  faithful 
solitude,  my  darling  contemplation,  must  I 
bid  you  then  adieu?  Ay-h  adieu — my  morn- 
ing thoughts,  agreeable  wakings,  indolent 
slumbers,  all  ye  douceurs,  ye  sommeils  du 
matin,  adieu? — I  can't  do't,  'tis  more  than 
impossible — positively,  Mirabell,  I'll  lie  abed 
in  a  morning  as  long  as  I  please. 

Mir.  Then  I'll  get  up  in  a  morning  as 
early  as  I  please. 

Mrs.  Mil.  Ah!  idle  creature,  get  up  when 
you  will — and  d'ye  hear,  I  won't  be  called 
names  after  I'm  married;  positively  I  won't 
be  called  names. 

Mir.     Names ! 

Mrs.  Mil.  Ay,  as  wife,  spouse,  my  dear, 
joy,  jewel,  love,  sweetheart,  and  the  rest  of 
that  nauseous  cant,  in  which  men  and  their 
wives  are  so  fulsomely  familiar— I  shall  never 
bear  that — good  Mirabell,  don't  let  us  be 
familiar  or  fond,  nor  kiss  before  folks,  like 
my  Lady  Fadler  and  Sir  Francis:  nor  go  to 
Hyde  Park  together  the  first  Sunday  in  a 
new  chariot,  to  provoke  eyes  and  whispers, 

143 


ACT  IV,  Sc.  I. 


THE  WAY  OF  THE  WORLD 


and  then  never  be  seen  there  together  again; 
as  if  we  were  proud  of  one  another  the  first 
week,  and  ashamed  of  one  another  ever  after. 
Let  us  never  visit  together,  nor  go  to  a  play 
together;  but  let  us  be  very  strange  and 
well-bred:  let  us  be  as  strange  as  if  we  had 
been  married  a  great  while;  and  as  well-bred 
as  if  we  were  not  married  at  all. 

Mir.  Have  you  any  more  conditions  to 
offer?  Hitherto  your  demands  are  pretty 
reasonable. 

Mrs.  Mil.  Trifles!—  As  liberty  to  pay  and 
receive  visits  to  and  from  whom  I  please; 
to  write  and  receive  letters,  without  interrog- 
atories or  wry  faces  on  your  part;  to  wear 
what  I  please;  and  choose  conversation  with 
regard  only  to  my  own  taste;  to  have  no 
obligation  upon  me  to  converse  with  wits 
that  I  don't  like,  because  they  are  your  ac- 
quaintance: or  to  be  intimate  with  fools, 
because  they  may  be  your  relations.  Come 
to  dinner  when  I  please;  dine  in  my  dressing- 
room  when  I'm  out  of  humor,  without  giving 
a  reason.  To  have  my  closet  inviolate;  to  be 
sole  empress  of  my  tea-table,  which  you 
must  never  presume  to  approach  without  first 
asking  leave.  And  lastly,  wherever  I  am, 
you  shall  always  knock  at  the  door  before 
you  come  in.  These  articles  subscribed,  if  I 
continue  to  endure  you  a  little  longer,  I  may 
by  degrees  dwindle  into  a  wife. 

Mir.  Your  bill  of  fare  is  something  ad- 
vanced in  this  latter  account.  —  Well,  have  I 
liberty  to  offer  conditions  —  that  when  you 
are  dwindled  into  a  wife,  I  may  not  be  be- 
yond measure  enlarged  into  a  husband? 

Mrs.  Mil.  You  have  free  leave;  propose 
your  utmost,  speak  and  spare  not. 

Mir.  I  thank  you.  —  Imprimis  then,  I  cove- 
nant, that  your  acquaintance  be  general;  that 
you  admit  no  sworn  confidant,  or  intimate  of 
your  own  sex;  no  she-friend  to  screen  her 
affairs  under  your  countenance,  and  tempt 
you  to  make  trial  of  a  mutual  secrecy.  No 
decoy-duck  to  wheedle  you  a  fop-scrambling 
to  the  play  in  a  mask  —  then  bring  you  home 
in  a  pretended  fright,  when  you  think  you 
shall  be  found  out  —  and  rail  at  me  for  missing 
the  play,  and  disappointing  the  frolic  which 
you  had  to  pick  me  up,  and  prove  my  con- 
stancy. 

Mrs.    Mil.     Detestable 
the  play  in  a  mask! 


imprimis!     I    go    to 


Mir.  Item,  I  article,  that  you  continue  to 
like  your  own  face,  as  long  as  I  shall:  and 
while  it  passes  current  with  me,  that  you 
endeavor  not  to  new-coin  it.  To  which  end. 
together  with  all  vizards  for  the  day,  I  pro- 
hibit all  masks  for  the  night,  made  of  oiled- 
skins,  and  I  know  not  what  —  hogs'  bones, 
hares'  gall,  pig-water,  and  the  marrow  of  a 


roasted  cat.     In'  short,   I  forbid  all 

with     the    gentlewoman    in    what-d'ye-call-it 

xourt.      Item,    I    shut    my    doors    against    all 


bawds  with  baskets,  and  pennyworths  of 
muslin,  china,  fans,  atlases,  etc.— Item,  when 
you  shall  be  breeding — 


Mrs. 
Mir. 


Mil.     Ah!    name   it   not. 

Which     may     be     presumed     with 


blessing  on  our  endeavors  — 

Mrs.    Mil.     Odious    endeavors  ! 

Mir.  I  denounce  against  all  strait  lacing, 
squeezing  for  a  shape,  till  you  mould  my 
boy's  head  like  a  sugar-loaf,  and  instead  of 
a  man-child,  make  me  father  to  a  crooked 
billet.  Lastly,  to  the  dominion  of  the  tea- 
table  I  submit  —  but  with  proviso,  that  you 
exceed  not  in  your  province;  but  restrain 
yourself  to  native  and  simple  tea-table  drinks, 
as  tea,  chocolate,  and  coffee:  as  likewise  to 
genuine  and  authorized  tea-table  talk—  such 
as  mending  of  fashions,  spoiling  reputations, 
railing  at  absent  friends,  and  so  forth—  but 
that  on  no  account  you  encroach  upon  the 
men's  prerogative,  and  presume  to  drink 
healths,  or  toast  fellows;  for  prevention  of 
which  I  banish  all  foreign  forces,  all  auxil- 
iaries to  the  tea-table,  as  orange-brandy,  all 
aniseed,  cinnamon,  citron,  and  Barbadoes 
waters,  together  with  ratafia,  and  the  most 
noble  spirit  of  clary  —  but  for  cowslip  wine, 
poppy  water,  and  all  dormitives,  those  I  al- 
low. —  These  provisos  admitted,  in  other 
things  I  may  prove  a  tractable  and  complying 
husband. 

Mrs.  Mil.  O  horrid  provisos!  filthy  strong- 
waters!  I  toast  fellows!  odious  men!  I  hate 
your  odious  provisos. 

Mir.  Then  we  are  agreed!  Shall  I  kiss 
your  hand  upon  the  contract?  And  here 
comes  one  to  be  a  witness  to  the  sealing  of 
the  deed. 

Enter  MRS.  FAINALL. 

Mrs.  Mil.  Fainall,  what  shall  I  do?  shall 
I  have  him  ?  I  think  I  must  have  him. 

Mrs.  Fain.  Ay,  ay,  take  him,  take  him, 
what  should  you  do? 

Mrs.  Mil.  Well  then-I'll  take  my  death 
I'm  in  a  horrid  fright  —  Fainall,  I  shall  never 
say  it  —  well  —  I  think  —  I'll  endure  you. 

Mrs.  Fain.  Fy!  fy!  have  him,  have  him, 
and  tell  him  so  in  plain  terms:  for  I  am  sure 
you  have  a  mind  to  him. 

Mrs.  Mil.  Are  you?  I  think  I  have  —  and 
the  horrid  man  looks  as  if  he  thought  so  too 
—  well,  you  ridiculous  thing  you,  I'll  have 
you  —  I  won't  be  kissed,  nor  I  won't  be 
thanked  —  here  kiss  my  hand  though.  —  So, 
hold  your  tongue  now,  don't  say  a  word. 

Mrs.  Fain.  Mirabel!,  there's  a  necessity 
for  your  obedience;  you  have  neither  time 
to  talk  nor  stay.  My  mother  is  coming;  and 
in  my  conscience  if  she  should  see  you, 
would  fall  into  fits,  and  maybe  not  recover 


gh  to  return  to  Sir  Rowland,  who, 
as  Foible  tells  me,  is  in  a  fair  way  to  suc- 
ceed. Therefore  spare  your  ecstasies  for  an- 


144 


THE  WAY  OF  THE  WORLD 


ACT  IV,  Sc.  I. 


other  occasion,  and  slip  down  the  backstairs, 
where  Foible  waits  to  consult  you. 

Mrs.  Mil.  Ay,  go,  go.  In  the  meantime 
I  suppose  you  have  said  something  to  please 
me. 

Mir.     I  am  all  obedience.  [Exit. 

Mrs.  Fain.  Yonder  Sir  Wilfull's  drunk, 
and  so  noisy  that  my  mother  has  been  forced 
to  leave  Sir  Rowland  to  appease  him;  but  he 
answers  her  only  with  singing1  and  drinking 
— what  they  may  have  done  by  this  time  I 
know  not;  but  Petulant  and  he  were  upon 
quarrelling  as  I  came  by. 

Mrs.  Mil.  Well,  if  Mirabell  should  not 
make  a  good  husband,  I  am  a  lost  thing,  for 
I  find  I  love  him  violently. 

Mrs.  Fain.  So  it  seems;  for  you  mind  not 
what's  said  to  you.— If  you  doubt  him,  you 
had  best  take  up  with  Sir  Wilful!. 

Mrs.  Mil.  How  can  you  name  that  super- 
annuated lubber?  fob!  . 

Enter    WITWOUD    from    drinking, 

Mrs.  Fain.  So,  is  the  fray  made  up,  that 
you  have  left  'em? 

II' it.  Left  'em ?  I  could  stay  no  longer — I 
have  laughed  like  ten  christenings — I  am 
tipsy  with  laughing — if  I  had  stayed  any 
longer  I  should  have  burst — I  must  have 
been  let  out  and  pieced  in  the  sides  like  an 
unsized  camlet. — Yes,  yes,  the  fray  is  com- 
posed; my  lady  came  in  like  a  noli  prosequi, 
and  stopped  the  proceedings. 

Mrs.  Mil.     What  was  the  dispute? 

Wit.  That's  the  jest;  there  was  no  dis- 
pute. They  could  neither  of  'em  speak  for 
rage,  and  so  fell  a  sputtering  at  one  another 
like  two  roasting  apples. 

Enter  PETULANT,  drunk. 

Wit.  Now,  Petulant,  all's  over,  all's  well. 
Gad,  my  head  begins  to  whim  it  about— why 
dost  thou  not  speak  ?  thou  art  both  as  drunk 
and  as  mute  as  a  fish. 

Pet.  Look  you,  Mrs.  Millamant — if  you 
can  love  me,  dear  nymph — say  it — and  that's 
the  conclusion — pass  on,  or  pass  off — that's 
all. 

Wit.  Thou  hast  uttered  volumes,  folios,  in 
less  than  decimo  sexto,  my  dear  Lacedemo- 
nian. Sirrah,  Petulant,  thou  art  an  epit- 
omizer  of  words. 

Pet.  Witwoud — you  are  an  annihilator  of 
sense. 

Wit.  Thou  art  a  retailer  of  phrases;  and 
dost  deal  in  remnants  of  remnants,  like  a 
maker  of  pincushions— thou  art  in  truth 
(metaphorically  speaking)  a  speaker  of 
shorthand. 

/  '•  '.     Thou  art  (without  a  figure)  just  one- 


half  of  an  ass,  and  Baldwin  yonder,  thy 
half-brother,  is  the  rest. — A  Gemini  of  asses 
split  would  make  just  four  of  you. 

145 


ll'it.  Thou  dost  bite,  my  dear  mustard 
seed;  kiss  me  for  that. 

Pet.  Stand  off! — I'll  kiss  no  more  males — 
I  have  kissed  your  twin  yonder  in  a  humor 
of  reconciliation,  till  he  [Hiccups]  rises  upon 
my  stomach  like  a  radish. 

Mrs.  Mil.  Eh!  filthy  creature!  what  was 
the  quarrel? 

Pet.  There  was  no  quarrel — there  might 
have  been  a  quarrel. 

ll'it.  If  there  had  been  words  enow  be- 
tween 'em  to  have  expressed  provocation, 
they  had  gone  together  by  the  ears  like  a 
pair  of  castanets. 

Pet.     You  were  the  quarrel. 

Mrs.  Mil.    .Me! 

/V/.  If  I  have  a  humor  to  quarrel,  I  can 
make  less  matters  conclude  premises. — If  you 
are  not  handsome,  what  then,  if  I  have  a 
humor  to  prove  it  ?  If  I  shall  have  my  re- 
ward, say  so;  if  not,  fight  for  your  face  the 
next  time  yourself — I'll  go  sleep. 

ll'it.  Do,  wrap  thyself  up  like  a  wood- 
louse,  and  dream  revenge — and  hear  me,  if 
thou  canst  learn  to  write  by  to-morrow 
morning,  pen  me  a  challenge. — I'll  carry  it 
for  thee. 

Pet.  Carry  your  mistress's  monkey  a 
spider! — Go  flea  dogs,  and  read  romances! — 
I'll  go  to  bed  to  my  maid.  [Exit. 

Mrs.  Fain.  He's  horridly  drunk.— How 
came  you  all  in  this  pickle? 

ll'it.  A  plot!  a  plot!  to  get  rid  of  the 
night — your  husband's  advice;  but  he  sneaked 
off. 

Enter    SIR   WILFULL   drunk,    LADY    WISHFORT. 

Lady  Wish.  Out  upon't,  out  upon't!  At 
years  of  discretion,  and  comport  yourself  at 
this  rantipole  rate! 

Sir   Wil.     No  offence,  aunt. 

Lady  Wish.  Offence!  as  I'm  a  person,  I'm 
ashamed  of  you — foh !  how  you  stink  of  wine !_ 
D'ye  think  my  niece  will  ever  endure  such  a 
Borachio!  you're  an  absolute  Borachio. 

Sir  Wil.     Borachio? 

Lady  Wish.  At  a  time  when  you  should 
commence  an  amour,  and  put  your  best  foot 
foremost — 

Sir  Wit.  S'heart,  an  you  grutch  me  your 
liquor,  make  a  bill— give  me  more  drink,  and 
take  my  purse. —  [Sings. 

"  Prithee  fill  me  the  glass, 

Till  it  laugh  in  my  face, 
With  ale  that  is  potent  and  mellow; 

He   that   whines   for   a   lass, 

Is  an  ignorant  ass, 
For  a  bumper  has  not  its  fellow." 

But  if  you  would  have  me  marry  my  cousin 


—say  the  word,  and  I'll  do't— Wilfull  will 
do't,  that's  the  word— Willfull  will  do't,  that's 
my  crest— my  motto  I  have  forgot. 


ACT  IV,  Sc.  I. 


THE  WAY  OF  THE  WORLD 


Lady  Wish.  My  nephew's  a  little  over- 
taken, cousin — but  'tis  with  drinking  your 
health. — O'  my  word  you  are  obliged  to  him. 

Sir  ll'il.  In  vino  veritas,  aunt.— If  I  drunk 
your  health  to-day,  cousin — I  am  a  Borachio. 
But  if  you  have  a  mind  to  be  married,  say 
the  word,  and  send  for  the  piper;  Wilfull 
will  do't.  If  not,  dust  it  away,  and  let's  have 
t'other  round.— Tony !— Odds  heart,  where's 
Tony! — Tony's  an  honest  fellow;  but  he  spits 
after  a  bumper,  and  that's  a  fault. —  [Sings. 
"  We'll  drink,  and  we'll  never  ha'  done,  boys, 

Put    the   glass   then   around   with   the    sun, 

boys, 
Let  Apollo's   example  invite  us; 

For  he's  drunk  every  night, 

And  that  makes  him  so  bright, 
That  he's  able  next  morning  to  light  us." 
The  sun's  a  good  pimple,  an  honest  soaker; 
he  has  a  cellar  at  your  Antipodes.  If  I 
travel,  aunt,  I  touch  at  your  Antipodes. — 
Your  Antipodes  are  a  good,  rascally  sort  of 
topsy-turvy  fellows:  if  I  had  a  bumper,  I'd 
stand  upon  my  head  and  drink  a  health  to 
'em. — A  match  or  no  match,  cousin  with  the 
hard  name?— Aunt,  Wilfull  will  do't.  If  she 
has  her  maidenhead,  let  her  look  to't;  if  she 
has  not,  let  her  keep  her  own  counsel  in  the 
meantime,  and  cry  out  at  the  nine  months' 
end. 

Mrs.  Mil.  Your  pardon,  madam,  I  can  stay 
no  longer— Sir  Wilfull  grows  very  powerful. 
Eh!  how  he  smells!  I  shall  be  overcome,  if 
I  stay.— Come,  cousin. 

[Exeunt  MRS.   MILLAMANT  and  MRS.   FAIN- 
ALL. 

Lady  Wish.  Smells!  He  would  poison  a 
tallow-chandler  and  his  family !  Beastly 
creature,  I  know  not  what  to  do  with  him!— 
Travel,  quotha!  ay,  travel,  travel,  get  thee 
gone,  get  thee  gone,  get  thee  but  far  enough, 
to  the  Saracens,  or  the  Tartars,  or  the  Turks ! 
— for  thou  art  not  fit  to  live  in  a  Christian 
commonwealth,  thou  beastly  pagan ! 

Sir  Wil.  Turks,  no;  no  Turks,  aunt:  your 
Turks  are  infidels,  and  believe  not  in  the 
grape.  Your  Mahometan,  your  Mussulman, 
is  a  dry  stinkard — no  offence,  aunt.  My  map 
says  that  your  Turk  is  not  so  honest  a  man 
as  your  Christian.  I  cannot  find  by  the  map 
that  your  Mufti  is  orthodox — whereby  it  is  a 
plain  case,  that  orthodox  is  a  hard  word, 
aunt,  and  [Hiccups]  Greek  for  claret.— [Sings. 
"  To  drink  is  a  Christian  diversion, 

Unknown   to  the  Turk  or  the  Persian: 
Let  Mahometan  fools 
Live    by    heathenish    rules, 

And   be   damned   over   tea-cups    and   coffee. 
But  let  British  lads  sing, 
Crown  a  health  to  the  king, 

And  a  fig  for  your  sultan  and  sophy !  " 


Ah,  Tony! 


Enter  FOIBLE,  who  whispers  to  LADY  WISHFORT. 

Lady  Wish.  [Aside  to  FOIBLE.]— Sir  Rowland 
impatient?  Good  lack!  what  shall  I  do  with 
this  beastly  tumbril? — [Aloud.]  Go  lie  down 
and  sleep,  you  sot!— or,  as  I'm  a  person,  I'll 
have  you  bastinadoed  with  broomsticks. — 
Call  up  the  wenches  with  broomsticks. 

Sir  Wil.  Ahey!  wenches,  where  are  the 
wenches  ? 

Lady  Wish.  Dear  Cousin  Witwoud,  get 
him  away,  and  you  will  bind  me  to  you  in- 
violably. I  have  an  affair  of  moment  that 
invades  me  with  some  precipitation— you  will 
oblige  me  to  all  futurity. 

Wit.  Come,  knight.— Pox  on  him,  I  don't 
know  what  to  say  to  him. — Will  you  go  to  a 
cock-match  ? 

Sir  Wil.  With  a  wench,  Tony!  Is  she  a 
shakebag,  sirrah?  Let  me  bite  your  cheek 
for  that. 

Wit.  Horrible!  he  has  a  breath  like  a  bag- 
pipe!— Ay,  ay;  come,  will  you  march,  my 
Salopian  ? 

Sir  Wil.  Lead  on,  little  Tony— I'll  follow 
thee,  my  Anthony,  my  Tantony,  sirrah,  thou 
shalt  be  my  Tantony,  and  I'll  be  thy  pig. 

"  And  a  fig  for  your  sultan   and  sophy." 

[Exeunt  SIR  WILFULL  and  WITWOUD. 
Lady    Wish.     This   will    never   do.     It   will 
never  make  a  match— at  least  before  he  has 
been  abroad. 

Enter  WAITWELL,   disguised  as   SIR   ROWLAND. 

Lady  Wish.  Dear  Sir  Rowland,  I  am  con- 
founded with  confusion  at  the  retrospection 
of  my  own  rudeness! — I  have  more  pardons 
to  ask  than  the  pope  distributes  in  the  year 
of  jubilee.  But  I  hope,  where  there  is  likely 
to  be  so  near  an  alliance,  we  may  unbend  the 
severity  of  decorums,  and  dispense  with  a 
little  ceremony. 

Wait.  My  impatience,  madam,  is  the  effect 
of  my  transport;  and  till  I  have  the  posses- 
sion of  your  adorable  person,  I  am  tantalized 
on  the  rack;  and  do  but  hang,  madam,  on 
the  tenter  of  expectation. 

Lady  Wish.  You  have  excess  of  gallantry, 
Sir  Rowland,  and  press  things  to  a  conclusion 
with  a  most  prevailing  vehemence. — But  a 
day  or  two  for  decency  of  marriage — 

Wait.  For  decency  of  funeral,  madam! 
The  delay  will  break  my  heart — or,  if  that 
should  fail,  I  shall  be  poisoned.  My  nephew 
will  get  an  inkling  of  my  designs,  and  poison 
me— and  I  would  willingly  starve  him  before 
I  die — I  would  gladly  go  out  of  the  world 
with  that  satisfaction. — That  would  be  some 
comfort  to  me,  if  I  could  but  live  so  long  as 
to  be  revenged  on  that  unnatural  viper! 

Lady  Wish.  Is  he  so  unnatural,  say  you? 
Truly  I  would  contribute  much  both  to  the 
saving  of  your  life,  and  the  accomplishment 


146 


THE  WAY  OF  THE  WORLD 


ACT  IV,  Sc.  I. 


of  your  revenge. — Not  that  I  respect  myself, 
though  he  has  been  a  perfidious  wretch  to  me. 

Wait.     Perfidious  to  you! 

Lady  Wish.  O  Sir  Rowland,  the  hours  that 
he  has  died  away  at  my  feet,  the  tears  that 
he  has  shed,  the  oaths  that  he  has  sworn, 
the  palpitations  that  he  has  felt,  the  trances 
and  the  tremblings,  the  ardors  and  the 
ecstasies,  the  kneelings  and  the  risings,  the 
heart-heavings  and  the  handgripings,  the 
pangs  and  the  pathetic  regards  of  his  pro- 
testing eyes! — Oh,  no  memory  can  register! 

Wait.  What,  my  rival!  is  the  rebel  my 
rival? — a'  dies. 

Lady  Wish.  No,  don't  kill  him  at  once,  Sir 
Rowland,  starve  him  gradually,  inch  by  inch. 

Wait.  I'll  do't.  In  three  weeks  he  shall 
be  barefoot;  in  a  month  out  at  knees  with 
begging  an  alms. — He  shall  starve  upward 
and  upward,  till  he  has  nothing  living  but  his 
head,  and  then  go  out  in  a  stink  like  a 
candle's  end  upon  a  save-all. 

Lady  Wish.  Well,  Sir  Rowland,  you  have 
the  way — you  are  no  novice  in  the  labyrinth 
of  love — you  have  the  clue. — But  as  I  am  a 
person,  Sir  Rowland,  you  must  not  attribute 
my  yielding  to  any  sinister  appetite,  or  in- 
digestion of  widowhood;  nor  impute  my 
complacency  to  any  lethargy  of  continence — 
I  hope  you  do  not  think  me  prone  to  any 
iteration  of  nuptials — 

Wait.     Far  be  it  from  me — 

Lady  Wish.  If  you  do,  I  protest  I  must 
recede— or  think  that  I  have  made  a  prostitu- 
tion of  decorums;  but  in  the  vehemence  of 
compassion,  and  to  save  the  life  of  a  person 
of  so  much  importance — 

Wait.     I  esteem  it  so. 

Lady  Wish.  Or  else  you  wrong  my  con- 
descension. 

II', at.     I   do  not,   I  do  not! 

Lady  Wish.     Indeed  you  do. 

Wait.     I  do  not,  fair  shrine  of  virtue! 

Lady  Wish.  If  you  think  the  least  scruple 
of  carnality  was  an  ingredient, — 

Wait.  Dear  madam,  no.  You  are  all  cam- 
phor and  frankincense,  all  chastity  and  odor. 

Lady  Wish.     Or  that— 

Enter  FOIBLE. 

Foib.  Madam,  the  dancers  are  ready;  and 
there's  one  with  a  letter,  who  must  deliver  it 
into  your  own  hands. 

Lady  Wish.  Sir  Rowland,  will  you  give 
me  leave?  Think  favorably,  judge  candidly, 
and  conclude  you  have  found  a  person  who 
would  suffer  racks  in  honor's  cause,  dear 
Sir  Rowland,  and  will  wait  on  you  inces- 
santly. [Exit. 

Wait.  Fy,  fy»— What  a  slavery  have  I 
undergone !  Spouse,  hast  thou  any  cordial  ? 
I  want  spirits. 

Foib.     What   a   washy    rogue    art    thou,    to 


pant   thus   for  a   quarter   of  an   hour's   lying 
and  swearing  to  a  fine  lady! 

Wait.  Oh,  she  is  the  antidote  to  desire! 
Spouse,  thou  wilt  fare  the  worse  for't — I  shall 
have  no  appetite  to  iteration  of  nuptials  this 
eight-and-forty  hours. — By  this  hand  I'd 
rather  be  a  chairman  in  the  dog-days — than 
act  Sir  Rowland  till  this  time  to-morrow! 

Enter  LADY  WISHFORT,  with  a  letter. 

Lady  Wish.  Call  in  the  dancers. — Sir  Row- 
land, we'll  sit,  if  you  please,  and  see  the  en- 
tertainment. [Dance.}  Now,  with  your  per- 
mission, Sir  Rowland,  I  will  peruse  my  letter. 
— I  would  open  it  in  your  presence,  because  I 
would  not  make  you  uneasy.  If  it  should 
make  you  uneasy,  I  would  burn  it. — Speak,  if 
it  does — but  you  may  see  the  superscription 
is  like  a  woman's  hand. 

Foib.  By  Heaven !  Mrs.  Marwood's,  I 
know  it. — My  heart  aches — get  it  from  her. 

[To  him. 

Wait.  A  woman's  hand!  no,  madam,  that's 
no  woman's  hand,  I  see  that  already.  That's 
somebody  whose  throat  must  be  cut. 

Lady  Wish.  Nay,  Sir  Rowland,  since  you 
give  me  a  proof  of  your  passion  by  your 
jealousy,  I  promise  you  I'll  make  a  return, 
by  a  frank  communication. — You  shall  see 
it — we'll  open  it  together — look  you  here. — 
[Reads.} — "  Madam,  though  unknown  to  you  " 
— Look  you  there,  'tis  from  nobody  that  I 
know — "  I  have  that  honor  for  your  char- 
acter, that  I  think  myself  obliged  to  let  you 
know  you  are  abused.  He  who  pretends  to 
be  Sir  Rowland,  is  a  cheat  and  a  rascal." — 
Oh,  Heavens  !  what's  this  ? 

Foib.    [Aside.}     Unfortunate!    all's    ruined! 

Wait.  How,  how,  let  me  see,  let  me  see!— 
[Reading.}  "  A  rascal,  and  disguised  and 
suborned  for  that  imposture," — O  villainy !  O 
villainy ! — "  by  the  contrivance  of — " 

Lady    Wish.     I   shall   faint,   I   shall  die,  oh! 

Foib.  Say  'tis  your  nephew's  hand — 
quickly,  his  plot,  swear,  swear  it!  [To  him. 

Wait.  Here's  a  villain!  Madam,  don't  you 
perceive  it,  don't  you  see  it? 

Lady  Wish.  Too  well,  too  well!  I  have 
seen  too  much. 

Wait.  I  told  you  at  first  I  knew  the  hand. 
— A  woman's  hand!  The  rascal  writes  a  sort 
of  a  large  hand;  your  Roman  hand — I  saw 
there  was  a  throat  to  be  cut  presently.  If 
he  were  my  son,  as  he  is  my  nephew,  I'd  pis- 
tol him! 

Foib.  O  treachery ! — But  are  you  sure,  Sir 
Rowland,  it  is  his  writing? 

Wait.  Sure!  am  I  here?  Do  I  live?  Do 
I  love  this  pearl  of  India?  I  have  twenty 
letters  in  my  pocket  from  him  in  the  same 
character. 

Lady  Wish.     How! 

Foib.     Oh,    what    luck 


it    is,    Sir    Rowland, 


that  you  were  present  at  this  juncture! — This 


147 


ACT  V,  Sc.  I. 


THE  WAY  OF  THE  WORLD 


was  the  business  that  brought  Mr.  Mirabel! 
disguised  to  Madam  Millamant  this  after- 
noon. I  thought  something  was  contriving, 
when  he  stole  by  me  and  would  have  hid  his 
face. 

Lady  U'ish.  How,  how!— I  heard  the  vil- 
lain was  in  the  house  indeed;  and  now  I 
remember,  my  niece  went  away  abruptly, 
when  Sir  Wilfull  was  to  have  made  his  ad- 
dresses. 

Foib.  Then,  then,  madam,  Mr.  Mirabell 
waited  for  her  in  her  chamber!  but  I  would 
not  tell  your  ladyship  to  discompose  you 
when  you  were  to  receive  Sir  Rowland. 

ll'i.'i'r.     Enough,  his  date  is  short. 

Foib.  No,  good  Sir  Rowland,  don't  incur 
the  law. 

Wait.  Law!  I  care  not  for  law.  I  can  but 
die,  and  'tis  in  a  good  cause. — My  lady  shall 
be  satisfied  of  my  truth  and  innocence, 
though  it  cost  me  my  life. 

Lady  Wish.  No,  dear  Sir  Rowland,  don't 
fight;  if  you  should  be  killed  I  must  never 
show  my  face;  or  hanged — O,  consider  my 
reputation,  Sir  Rowland! — No,  you  shan't 
fight— I'll  go  in  and  examine  my  niece;  I'll 
make  her  confess.  I  conjure  you,  Sir  Row- 
land, by  all  your  love,  not  to  fight. 

Wait.  I  am  charmed,  madam,  I  obey.  But 
some  proof  you  must  let  me  give  you;  I'll 
go  for  a  black  box,  which  contains  the  writ- 
ings of  my  whole  estate,  and  deliver  that 
into  your  hands. 

Lady  Wish.  Ay,  dear  Sir  Rowland,  that 
will  be  some  comfort,  bring  the  black  box. 

Wait.  And  may  I  presume  to  bring  a 
contract  to  be  signed  this  night?  may  I  hope 
so  far? 

Lady  Wish.  Bring  what  you  will;  but 
come  alive,  pray  come  alive.  Oh,  this  is  a 
happy  discovery! 

Wait.  Dead  or  alive  I'll  come — and  mar- 
ried we  will  be  in  spite  of  treachery;  ay, 
and  get  an  heir  that  shall  defeat  the  last  re- 
maining glimpse  of  hope  in  my  abandoned 
nephew.  Come,  my  buxom  widow: 

Ere    long    you    shall    substantial    proofs    re- 
ceive, 
That  I'm  an  arrant  knight — 


Foib.     [Aside.] 


Or   arrant   knave. 

[Exeunt. 


ACT  V 


SCENE  I 

Scene  Continues. 
LADY    WISHFORT    and    FOIBLE. 

Lady  Wish.  Out  of  my  house,  out  of  my 
hduse,  thou  viper!  thou  serpent,  that  I  have 
fostered!  thou  bosom  traitress,  that  I  raised 
from  nothing !— Begone !  begone!  begone!— go! 


go!— That  I  took  from  washing  of  old  gauze 
and  weaving  of  dead  hair,  with  a  bleak  blue 
nose  over  a  chafing-dish  of  starved  embers, 
and  dining  behind  a  traverse  rag,  in  a  shop 
no  bigger  than  a  bird-cage! — Go,  go!  starve 
again,  do,  do ! 

Foib.  Dear  madam,  I'll  beg  pardon  on  my 
knees. 

Lady  Wish.  Away!  out!  out! — Go,  set  up 
for  yourself  again!— Do,  drive  a  trade,  do, 
with  your  three-pennyworth  of  small  ware, 
flaunting  upon  a  packthread,  under  a  brandy- 
seller's  bulk,  or  against  a  dead  wall  by 
a  ballad-monger!  Go,  hang  out  an  old 
Frisoneer  gorget,  with  a  yard  of  yellow  col- 
bertine  again!  Do;  an  old  gnawed  mask,  two 
rows  of  pins,  and  a  child's  fiddle;  a  glass 
necklace  with  the  beads  broken,  and  a  quilted 
night-cap  with  one  ear!  Go,  go,  drive  a 
trade!— These  were  your  commodities,  you 
treacherous  trull!  this  was  the  merchandise 
you  dealt  in  when  I  took  you  into  my  house, 
placed  you  next  myself,  and  made  you  gov- 
ernante  of  my  whole  family !  You  have 
forgot  this,  have  you,  now  you  have  feathered 
your  nest? 

Foib.  No,  no,  dear  madam.  Do  but  hear 
me,  have  but  a  moment's  patience,  I'll  confess 
all.  Mr.  Mirabell  seduced  me;  I  am  not  the 
first  that  he  has  wheedled  with  his  dis- 
sembling tongue;  your  ladyship's  own  wis- 
dom has  been  deluded  by  him;  then  how 
should  I,  a  poor  ignorant,  defend  myself?  O 
madam,  if  you  knew  but  what  he  promised 
me,  and  how  he  assured  me  your  ladyship 
should  come  to  no  damage! — Or  else  the 
wealth  of  the  Indies  should  not  have  bribed 
me  to  conspire  against  so  good,  so  sweet,  so 
kind  a  lady  as  you  have  been  to  me. 

Lady  Wish.  No  damage!  What,  to  betray 
me,  to  marry  me  to  a  cast  servingman!  to 
make  me  a  receptacle,  an  hospital  for  a  de- 
cayed pimp !  No  damage !  O  thou  frontless 
impudence,  more  than  a  big-bellied  actress ! 

Foib.  Pray,  do  but  hear  me,  madam;  he 
could  not  marry  your  ladyship,  madam.— No, 
indeed,  his  marriage  was  to  have  been  void 
in  law,  for  he  was  married  to  me  first,  to 
secure  your  ladyship.  He  could  not  have 
bedded  your  ladyship;  for  if  he  had  consum- 
mated with  your  ladyship,  he  must  have  run 
the  risk  of  the  law,  and  been  put  upon  his 
clergy.— Yes,  indeed,  I  inquired  of  the  law 
in  that  case  before  I  would  meddle  or  make. 

Lady  Wish.  What,  then,  I  have  been 
your  property,  have  I?  I  have  been  conven- 
ient to  you,  it  seems! — While  you  were 
catering  for  Mirabell,  I  have  been  broker  for 
you!  What,  have  you  made  a  passive  bawd 
of  me? — This  exceeds  all  precedent;  I  am 
brought  to  fine  uses,  to  become  a  botcher  of 
second-hand  marriages  between  Abigails  and 
Andrews ! — I'll  couple  you ! — Yes,  I'll  baste 
you  together,  you  and  your  Philander!  I'll 


148 


THE  WAY  OF  THE  WORLD 


ACT  V,  Sc.  I. 


Duke's-place  you,  as  I'm  a  person !  Your 
turtle  is  in  custody  already:  you  shall  coo 
in  the  same  cage,  if  there  be  a  constable  or 
warrant  in  the  parish.  {Exit. 

Foib.  Oh,  that  ever  I  was  born!  Oh,  that 
I  was  ever  married ! — A  bride ! — ay,  I  shall 
be  a  Bridewell-bride.— Oh! 

Enter  MRS.  FAINALL. 

Mrs.  Fain.  Poor  Foible,  what's  the  mat- 
ter? 

Foib.  O  madam,  my  lady's  gone  for  a  con- 
stable. I  shall  be  had  to  a  justice,  and  put 
to  Bridewell  to  beat  hemp.  Poor  WaitwelPs 
gone  to  prison  already. 

Mrs.  Fain.  Have  a  good  heart,  Foible; 
Mirabell's  gone  to  give  security  for  him. 
This  is  all  Marwood's  and  my  husband's 
doing. 

Foib.  Yes,  yes;  I  know  it,  madam:  she 
was  in  my  lady's  closet,  and  overheard  all 
that  you  said  to  me  before  dinner.  She  sent 
the  letter  to  my  lady;  and  that  missing  ef- 
fect, Mr.  Fainall  laid  this  plot  to  arrest 
Waitwell,  when  he  pretended  to  go  for  the 
papers;  and  in  the  meantime  Mrs.  Marwood 
declared  all  to  my  lady. 

Mrs.  Fain.  Was  there  no  mention  made  of 
me  in  the  letter?  My  mother  does  not  sus- 
pect my  being  in  the  confederacy  ?  I  fancy 
Marwood  has  not  told  her,  though  she  has 
told  my  husband. 

Foib.  Yes,  madam;  but  my  lady  did  not 
•ee  that  part;  we  stifled  the  letter  before 
she  read  so  far. — Has  that  mischievous  devil 
told  Mr.  Fainall  of  your  ladyship,  then? 

Mrs.  Fain.  Ay,  all's  out — my  affair  with 
Mirabell — everything  discovered.  This  is  the 
last  day  of  our  living  together,  that's  my 
comfort. 

Foib.  Indeed,  madam;  and  so  'tis  a  com- 
fort if  you  knew  all;— he  has  been  even  with 
your  ladyship,  which  I  could  have  told  you 
long  enough  since,  but  I  love  to  keep  peace 
and  quietness  by  my  goodwill.  I  had  rather 
bring  friends  together,  than  set  'em  at  dis- 
tance: but  Mrs.  Marwood  and  he  are  nearer 
related  than  ever  their  parents  thought  for. 

Mrs.  Fain.  Sayest  thou  so,  Foible?  Canst 
thou  prove  this? 

Foib.  I  can  take  my  oath  of  it,  madam; 
so  can  Mrs.  Mincing.  We  have  had  many  a 
fair  word  from  Madam  Marwood,  to  conceal 
something  that  passed  in  our  chamber  one 
evening  when  you  were  at  Hyde  Park;  and 
we  were  thought  to  have  gone  a-walking, 
but  we  went  up  unawares; — though  we  were 
sworn  to  secrecy,  too.  Madam  Marwood 
took  a  book  and  swore  us  upon  it,  but  it  was 
but  a  book  of  poems.  So  long  as  it  was  not 
a  bible-oath,  we  may  break  it  with  a  safe 
conscience. 

Mrs.    Fain.     This    discovery    is    the    most 


opportune    thing   I    could    wish. — Now,   Minc- 
ing! 

Enter   MINCING. 

Min.  My  lady  would  speak  with  Mrs. 
Foible,  mem.  Mr.  Mirabell  is  with  her;  he 
has  set  your  spouse  at  liberty,  Mrs.  Foible, 
and  would  have  you  hide  yourself  in  my 
lady's  closet  till  my  old  lady's  anger  is 
abated.  Oh,  my  old  lady  is  in  a  perilous 
passion  at  something  Mr.  Fainall  has  said; 
he  swears,  and  my  old  lady  cries.  There's  a 
fearful  hurricane,  I  vow.  He  says,  mem,  how 
that  he'll  have  my  lady's  fortune  made  over 
to  him,  or  he'll  be  divorced. 

Mrs.  Fain.  Does  your  lady  or  Mirabell 
know  that? 

Min.  Yes,  mem;  they  have  sent  me  to  see 
if  Sir  Wilfull  be  sober,  and  to  bring  him  to 
them.  My  lady  is  resolved  to  have  him,  I 
think,  rather  than  lose  such  a  vast  sum  as 
six  thousand  pounds. — Oh,  come,  Mrs.  Foible, 
I  hear  my  old  lady. 

Mrs.  Fain.  Foible,  you  must  tell  Mincing 
that  she  must  prepare  to  vouch  when  I  call 
her. 

Foib.     Yes,  yes,   madam. 

Min.     Oh,    yes,    mem,    I'll    vouch    anything 

for  your  ladyship's  service,   be  what   it  will. 

[.Exeunt  MINCING  and  FOIBLE. 

Enter    LADY    WISHFORT,    and    MRS.    MARWOOD. 

Lady  Wish.  Oh,  my  dear  friend,  how  can 
I  enumerate  the  benefits  that  I  have  re- 
ceived from  your  goodness !  To  you  I  owe 
the  timely  discovery  of  the  false  vows  of 
Mirabell;  to  you  I  owe  the  detection  of  the 
impostor  Sir  Rowland.  And  now  you  are  be- 
come an  intercessor  with  my  son-in-law,  to 
save  the  honor  of  my  house,  and  compound 
for  the  frailities  of  my  daughter.  Well, 
friend,  you  are  enough  to  reconcile  me  to 
the  bad  world,  or  else  I  would  retire  to 
deserts  and  solitudes,  and  feed  harmless 
sheep  by  groves  and  purling  streams.  Dear 
Marwood,  let  us  leave  the  world,  and  retire 
by  ourselves  and  be  shepherdesses. 

Mrs.  Mar.  Let  us  first  dispatch  the  affair 
in  hand,  madam.  We  shall  have  leisure  to 
think  of  retirement  afterwards.  Here  is  one 
who  is  concerned  in  the  treaty. 

Lady  Wish.  Oh,  daughter,  daughter!  is  it 
possible  thou  shouldst  be  my  child,  bone  of 
my  bone,  and  flesh  of  my  flesh,  and,  as  I  may 
say,  another  me,  and  yet  transgress  the  most 
minute  particle  of  severe  virtue?  Is  it  pos- 
sible you  should  lean  aside  to  iniquity,  who 
have  been  cast  in  the  direct  mould  of  virtue? 
I  have  not  only  been  a  mould  but  a  pattern 
for  you,  and  a  model  for  you,  after  you  were 
brought  into  the  world. 

Mrs.  Fain.  I  don't  understand  your  lady- 
ship. 

Lady    Wish.     Not  understand!     Why,   have 


149 


ACT  V,  Sc.  I. 


THE  WAY  OF  THE  WORLD 


you  not  been  naught?  have  you  not  been 
sophisticated  ?  Not  understand !  here  I  am 
ruined  to  compound  for  your  caprices  and 
your  cuckoldoms.  I  must  pawn  my  plate 
and  my  jewels,  and  ruin  my  niece,  and  all 
little  enough — 

Mrs.  Fain.  I  am  wronged  and  abused,  and 
so  are  you.  'Tis  a  false  accusation,  as  false 
as  hell,  as  false  as  your  friend  there,  ay,  or 
your  friend's  friend,  my  false  husband. 

Mrs.  'Mar.  My  friend,  Mrs.  Fainall !  your 
husband  my  friend !  what  do  you  mean  ? 

Mrs.  Fain.  I  know  what  I  mean,  madam, 
and  so  do  you;  and  so  shall  the  world  at  a 
time  convenient. 

Mrs.  Mar.  I  am  sorry  to  see  you  so  pas- 
sionate, madam.  More  temper  would  look 
more  like  innocence.  But  I  have  done.  I 
am  sorry  my  zeal  to  serve  your  ladyship  and 
family  should  admit  of  misconstruction,  or 
make  me  liable  to  affronts.  You  will  pardon 
me,  madam,  if  I  meddle  no  more  with  an 
affair  in  which  I  am  not  personally  concerned. 

Lady  Wish.  O  dear  friend,  I  am  so 
ashamed  that  you  should  meet  with  such 
returns! — [To  MRS.  FAINALL.]  You  ought  to 
ask  pardon  on  your  knees,  ungrateful  crea- 
ture! she  deserves  more  from  you  than  all 
your  life  can  accomplish. — [To  MRS.  MAR- 
WOOD.]  Oh,  don't  leave  me  destitute  in  this 
perplexity ! — no,  stick  to  me,  my  good  genius. 


Mrs.     Fain.     I     tell     you, 
abused. — Stick    to   you !    ay, 


madam,     you're 
like    a    leech,    to 


suck  your  best  blood — she'll  drop  off  when 
she's  full.  Madam,  you  shan't  pawn  a  bodkin, 
nor  part  with  a  brass  counter,  in  composition 
for  me.  I  defy  'em  all.  Let  'em  prove  their 
aspersions;  I  know  my  own  innocence,  and 
dare  stand  a  trial.  [Exit. 

Lady  Wish.  Why,  if  she  should  be  inno- 
cent, if  she  should  be  wronged  after  all,  ha? 
— I  don't  know  what  to  think;— and  I  promise 
you  her  education  has  been  unexceptionable 
— I  may  say  it;  for  I  chiefly  made  it  my  own 
care  to  initiate  her  very  infancy  in  the 
rudiments  of  virtue,  and  to  impress  upon 
her  tender  years  a  young  odium  and  aversion 
to  the  very  sight  of  men:  ay,  friend,  she 
would  ha'  shrieked  if  she  had  but  seen  a 
man,  till  she  was  in  her  teens.  As  I'm  a 
person  'tis  true; — she  was  never  suffered  to 
play  with  a  male  child,  though  but  in  coats; 
nay,  her  very  babies  were  of  the  feminine 
gender.  Oh,  she  never  looked  a  man  in  the 
face  but  her  own  father,  or  the  chaplain,  and 
him  we  made  a  shift  to  put  upon  her  for  a 
woman,  by  the  help  of  his  long  garments, 
and  his  sleek  face,  till  she  was  going  in  her 
fifteen. 

Mrs.  Mar.  'Twas  much  she  should  be  de- 
ceived so  long. 

Lady  Wish.  I  warrant  you,  or  she  would 
never  have  borne  to  have  been  catechized 
by  him;  and  have  heard  his  long  lectures 


against  singing  and  dancing,  and  such  de- 
baucheries; and  going  to  filthy  plays,  and 
profane  music-meetings,  where  the  lewd 
trebles  squeak  nothing  but  bawdy,  and  the 
basses  roar  blasphemy.  Oh,  she  would  have 
swooned  at  the  sight  or  name  of  an  obscene 
play-book !— and  can  I  think,  after  all  this, 
that  my  daughter  can  be  naught?  What,  a 
whore?  and  thought  it  excommunication  to 
set  her  foot  within  the  door  of  a  playhouse! 
O  dear  friend,  I  can't  believe  it,  no,  no!  As 
she  says,  let  him  prove  it,  let  him  prove  it. 
Mrs.  Mar.  Prove  it,  madam!  What,  and 
have  your  name  prostituted  in  a  public 
court!  Yours  and  your  daughter's  reputa- 
tion worried  at  the  bar  by  a  pack  of  bawling 
lawyers!  To  be  ushered  in  with  an  O  yes 
of  scandal;  and  have  your  case  opened  by  an 
old  fumbling  lecher  in  a  quoif  like  a  man- 
midwife;  to  bring  your  daughter's  infamy  to 
light;  to  be  a  theme  for  legal  punsters  and 
quibblers  by  the  statute;  and  become  a  jest 
against  a  rule  of  court,  where  there  is  no 
precedent  for  a  jest  in  any  record — not  even 
in  doomsday-book;  to  discompose  the  gravity 
of  the  bench,  and  provoke  naughty  interrog- 
atories in  more  naughty  law  Latin;  while 
the  good  judge,  tickled  with  the  proceed- 
ing, simpers  under  a  grey  beard,  and  fidgets 
off  and  on  his  cushion  as  if  he  had  swal- 
lowed cantharides,  or  sat  upon  cow-itch ! — 


Lady  Wish. 
Mrs.    Mar. 


Oh,  'tis  very  hard! 
And   then    to    have    my    young 


revellers  of  the  Temple  take  notes,  like  'pren- 
tices at  a  conventicle;  and  after  talk  it  over 
again  in  commons,  or  before  drawers  in  an 
eating-house. 

Lady  Wish.     Worse  and  worse! 

Mrs.  Mar.  Nay,  this  is  nothing;  if  it 
would  end  here  'twere  well.  But  it  must, 
after  this,  be  consigned  by  the  shorthand 
writers  to  the  public  press;  and  from  thence 
be  transferred  to  the  hands,  nay  into  the 
throats  and  lungs  of  hawkers,  with  voices 
more  licentious  than  the  loud  flounder-man's: 
and  this  you  must  hear  till  you  are  stunned; 
nay,  you  must  hear  nothing  else  for  some 
days. 

Lady  Wish.  Oh,  'tis  insupportable!  No, 
no,  dear  friend,  make  it  up,  make  it  up; 
ay>  ay,  I'll  compound.  I'll  give  up  all,  my- 
self and  my  all,  my  niece  and  her  all — 
anything,  everything  for  composition. 

Mrs.  Mar.  Nay,  madam,  I  advise  noth- 
ing, I  only  lay  before  you,  as  a  friend,  the 
inconveniences  which  perhaps  you  have  over- 
seen. Here  comes  Mr.  Fainall;  if  he  will 
be  satisfied  to  huddle  up  all  in  silence,  I 
shall  be  glad.  You  must  think  I  would 
rather  congratulate  than  condole  with  you. 

Enter    FAINALL. 

Lady  Wish.  Ay,  ay,  I  do  not  doubt  it, 
dear  Mar  wood;  no,  no,  I  do  not  doubt  it. 


150 


THE  WAY  OF  THE  WORLD 


ACT  V,  Sc.  I. 


Fain.  Well,  madam;  I  have  suffered  my- 
self to  be  overcome  by  the  importunity  of 
this  lady  your  friend;  and  am  content  you 
shall  enjoy  your  own  proper  estate  during 
life,  on  condition  you  oblige  yourself  never 
to  marry,  under  such  penalty  as  I  think 
convenient. 

Lady   Wish.     Never  to  marry! 

Fain.  No  more  Sir  Rowlands;  the  next 
imposture  may  not  be  so  timely  detected. 

Mrs.  Mar.  That  condition,  I  dare  answer, 
my  lady  will  consent  to  without  difficulty; 
she  has  already  but  too  much  experienced 
the  perfidiousncss  of  men.  —  Besides,  madam, 
when  we  retire  to  our  pastoral  solitude  we 
shall  bid  adieu  to  all  other  thoughts. 

Lady  Wish.  Ay,  that's  true;  but  in  case 
of  necessity,  as  of  health,  or  some  such 
emergency  — 

Fain.  Oh,  if  you  are  prescribed  marriage, 
you  shall  be  considered;  I  will  only  reserve 
to  myself  the  power  to  choose  for  you.  If 
your  physic  be  wholesome,  it  matters  not 
who  is  your  apothecary.  Next,  my  wife 
shall  settle  on  me  the  remainder  of  her 
fortune,  not  made  over  already;  and  for  her 


entirely     on     my     dis- 


maintenance    depend 
cretion. 

Lady  Wish.  This  is  most  inhumanly  sav- 
age; exceeding  the  barbarity  of  a  Muscovite 
husband. 

Fain.  I  learned  it  from  his  Czarish  maj- 
esty's retinue,  in  a  winter  evening's  con- 
ference over  brandy  and  pepper,  amongst 
other  secrets  of  matrimony  and  policy,  as 
they  are  at  present  practised  in  the  north- 
ern hemisphere.  But  this  must  be  agreed 
unto,  and  that  positively.  Lastly,  I  will  be 
endowed,  in  right  of  my  wife,  with  six 
thousand  pounds,  which  is  the  moiety  of 
Mrs.  Millamant's  fortune  in  your  possession; 
and  which  she  has  forfeited  (as  will  appear 
by  the  last  will  and  testament  of  your  de- 
ceased husband,  Sir  Jonathan  Wishfort)  by 
her  disobedience  in  contracting  herself 
against  your  consent  or  knowledge;  and  by 
refusing  the  offered  match  with  Sir  Wilfull 
Witwoud,  which  you,  like  a  careful  aunt,  had 
provided  for  her. 

Lady  Wish.  My  nephew  was  non  compos, 
and  could  not  make  his  addresses. 

Fain.  I  come  to  make  demands—  I'll  hear 
no  objections. 

Lady    Wish. 
consider? 


You    will    grant    me    time    to 


Fain.  Yes,  while  the  instrument  is  draw- 
ing, to  which  you  must  set  your  hand  till 
more  sufficient  deeds  can  be  perfected:  which 


shall   be    done   with   all  pos- 
In  the  meanwhile   I  will   go   for 


I  will  take 
sible  speed, 
the  said  instrument,  and  till  my  return  you 
may  balance  this  matter  in  your  own  dis- 
cretion. [Exit. 
Lady  Wish.  This  insolence  is  beyond  all 


precedent,  all  parallel:  must  I  be  subject  to 
this  merciless  villain  ? 

Mrs.  Mar.  'Tis  severe  indeed,  madam,  that 
you  should  smart  for  your  daughter's  wan- 
tonness. 

Lady  Wish.  'Twas  against  my  consent 
that  she  married  this  barbarian,  but  she 
would  have  him,  though  her  year  was  not 
out. — Ah !  her  first  husband,  my  son  Lan- 
guish, would  not  have  carried  it  thus.  Well, 
that  was  my  choice,  this  is  hers:  she  is 
matched  now  with  a  witness.— I  shall  be 
mad ! — Dear  friend,  is  there  no  comfort  for 
me?  must  I  live  to  be  confiscated  at  this 
rebel-rate? — Here  come  two  more  of  my 
Egyptian  plagues  too. 

Enter    MRS. 


MILLAMANT    and 
WITWOUD. 


SIR    WILFULL 


Sir    Wil.     Aunt,    your    servant. 

Lady  Wish.  Out,  caterpillar,  call  not  me 
aunt!  I  know  thee  not! 

Sir  Wil.  I  confess  I  have  been  a  little  in 
disguise,  as.  they  say. — S'heart!  and  I'm 
sorry  for't.  What  would  you  have?  I  hope 
I  have  committed  no  offence,  aunt — and  if  I 
did  I  am  willing  to  make  satisfaction;  and 
what  can  a  man  say  fairer?  If  I  have  broke 
anything  I'll  pay  for't,  an  it  cost  a  pound. 
And  so  let  that  content  for  what's  past,  and 
make  no  more  words.  For  what's  to  come, 
to  pleasure  you  I'm  willing  to  marry  my 
cousin.  So  pray  let's  all  be  friends;  she  and 
I  are  agreed  upon  the  matter  before  a 
witness. 

Lady  Wish.  How's  this,  dear  niece?  Have 
I  any  comfort?  Can  this  be  true? 

Mrs.  Mil.  I  am  content  to  be  a  sacrifice 
to  your  repose,  madam;  and  to  convince  you 
that  I  had  no  hand  in  the  plot,  as  you  were 
misinformed,  I  have  laid  my  commands  on 
Mirabel!  to  come  in  person,  and  be  a  wit- 
ness that  I  give  my  hand  to  this  flower  of 
knighthood:  and  for  the  contract  that  passed 
between  Mirabell  and  me,  I  have  obliged  him 
to  make  a  resignation  of  it  in  your  lady- 
ship's presence; — he  is  without,  and  waits 
your  leave  for  admittance. 

Lady  Wish.  Well,  I'll  swear  I  am  some- 
thing revived  at  this  testimony  of  your 
obedience:  but  I  cannot  admit  that  traitor. — 
I  fear  I  cannot  fortify  myself  to  support  his 
appearance.  He  is  as  terrible  to  me  as  a 
gorgon;  if  I  see  him  I  fear  I  shall  turn  to 
stone,  and  petrify  incessantly. 

Mrs.  Mil.  If  you  disoblige  him,  he  may 
resent  your  refusal,  and  insist  upon  the  con- 
tract still.  Then  'tis  the  last  time  he  will 
be  offensive  to  you. 

Lady  Wish.  Are  you  sure  it  will  be  the 
last  time  ? — If  I  were  sure  of  that — shall  I 
never  see  him  again? 

Mrs.  Mil.  Sir  Wilfull,  you  and  he  are  to 
travel  together,  are  you  not? 


151 


ACT  V,  Sc.  I. 


THE  WAY  OF  THE  WORLD 


Sir  ll'il.  S'heart,  the  gentleman's  a  civil 
gentleman,  aunt,  let  him  come  in;  why,  we 
are  sworn  brothers  and  fellow-travellers. — 
We  are  to  be  Pylades  and  Orestes,  he  and  I. 
— He  is  to  be  my  interpreter  in  foreign  parts. 
He  has  been  over-seas  once  already;  and 
with  proviso  that  I  marry  my  cousin,  will 
cross  'em  once  again,  only  to  bear  me  com- 
pany.— S'heart,  I'll  call  him  in,— an  I  set  on't 
once,  he  shall  come  in;  and  see  who'll  hinder 
him.  [Goes  to  the  door  and  hems. 

Mrs.  Mar.  This  is  precious  fooling,  if  it 
would  pass;  but  I'll  know  the  bottom  of 
it. 

Lady  ll'isli.  O  dear  Marwood,  you  are  not 
going? 

Mrs.  Mar.  Not  far,  madam;  I'll  return 
immediately.  [Exit. 

Enter   MIRABELL. 

Sir  ll'il.  Look  up,  man,  I'll  stand  by  you; 
'sbud  an  she  do  frown,  she  can't  kill  you; 
besides — harkee,  she  dare  not  frown  des- 
perately, because  her  face  is  none  of  her  own. 
S'heart,  an  she  should,  her  forehead  would 
wrinkle  like  the  coat  of  a  cream-cheese;  but 
mum  for  that,  fellow-traveller. 

Mir.  If  a  deep  sense  of  the  many  injuries 
I  have  offered  to  so  good  a  lady,  with  a 
sincere  remorse,  and  a  hearty  contrition,  can 
but  obtain  the  least  glance  of  compassion, 
I  am  too  happy. — Ah,  madam,  there  was  a 
time! — but  let  it  be  forgotten — I  confess  I 
have  deservedly  forfeited  the  high  place  I 
once  held  of  sighing  at  your  feet.  Nay, 
kill  me  not,  by  turning  from  me  in  disdain. 
— I  come  not  to  plead  for  favor;  nay,  not 
for  pardon;  I  am  a  suppliant  only  for  pity — 
I  am  going  where  I  never  shall  behold  you 


How,   fellow-traveller!   you   shall 


more — 

Sir    Wil. 
go  by  yourself  then. 

Mir.  Let  me  be  pitied  first,  and  after- 
wards forgotten. — I  ask  no  more. 

Sir  Wil.  By'r  Lady,  a  very  reasonable  re- 
quest, and  will  cost  you  nothing,  aunt! 
Come,  come,  forgive  and  forget,  aunt.  Why, 
you  must,  an  you  are  a  Christian. 

Mir.  Consider,  madam,  in  reality,  you 
could  not  receive  much  prejudice;  it  was  an 
innocent  device;  though  I  confess  it  had  a 
face  of  guiltiness,— it  was  at  most  an  artifice 
which  love  contrived;  and  errors  which  love 
produces  have  ever  been  accounted  venial. 
At  least  think  it  is  punishment  enough,  that 
I  have  lost  what  in  my  heart  I  hold  most 
dear,  that  to  your  cruel  indignation  I  have 
offered  up  this  beauty,  and  with  her  my 
peace  and  quiet;  nay,  all  my  hopes  of 
future  comfort. 

Sir  Wil.  An  he  does  not  move  me,  would 
I  may  never  be  o'  the  quorum! — an  it  were 
not  as  good  a  deed  as  to  drink,  to  give  her  to 
him  again,  I  would  I  might  never  take  ship- 


ping!— Aunt,  if  you  don't  forgive  quickly,  I 
shall  melt,  I  can  tell  you  that.  My  contract 
went  no  farther  than  a  little  mouth  glue, 
and  that's  hardly  dry; — one  doleful  sigh  more 
from  my  fellow-traveller,  and  'tis  dissolved. 

Lady  Wish.  Well,  nephew,  upon  your  ac- 
count— Ah,  he  has  a  false  insinuating  tongue! 
— Well  sir,  I  will  stifle  my  just  resentment 
at  my  nephew's  request.— I  will  endeavor 
what  I  can  to  forget,  but  on  proviso  that 
you  resign  the  contract  with  my  niece  im- 
mediately. 

Mir.  It  is  in  writing,  and  with  papers  of 
concern;  but  I  have  sent  my  servant  for  it, 
and  will  deliver  it  to  you,  with  all  acknowl- 
edgments for  your  transcendent  goodness. 

Lady  Wish.  [Aside. "\  Oh,  he  has  witchcraft 
in  his  eyes  and  tongue! — When  I  did  not  see 
him,  I  could  have  bribed  a  villain  to  his 
assassination;  but  his  appearance  rakes  the 
embers  which  have  so  long  lain  smothered 
in  my  breast. 

Enter    FAINALL    and    MRS.    MARWOOD. 

Fain.  Your  date  of  deliberation,  madam, 
is  expired.  Here  is  the  instrument;  are  you 
prepared  to  sign? 

Lady  Wish.  If  I  were  prepared,  I  am  not 
impowered.  My  niece  exerts  a  lawful  claim, 
having  matched  herself  by  my  direction  to 
Sir  Wilfull. 

Fain.  That  sham  is  too  gross  to  pass  on 
me — though  'tis  imposed  on  you,  madam. 

Mrs.   Mil.     Sir,    I   have    given    my   consent. 

Mir.  And,  sir,  I  have  resigned  my  pre- 
tensions. 

Sir  Wil.  And,  sir,  I  assert  my  right:  and 
will  maintain  it  in  defiance  of  you,  sir,  and 
of  your  instrument.  S'heart,  an  you  talk 
of  an  instrument,  sir,  I  have  an  old  fox  by 
my  thigh  that  shall  hack  your  instrument 
of  ram  vellum  to  shreds,  sir!  It  shall  not 
be  sufficient  for  a  mittimus  or  a  tailor's 
measure.  Therefore  withdraw  your  instru- 
ment, sir,  or  by'r  Lady,  I  shall  draw  mine. 

Lady    Wish.     Hold,   nephew,   hold! 

Mrs.  Mil.  Good  Sir  Wilfull,  respite  your 
valor. 

Fain.  Indeed!  Are  you  provided  of  your 
guard,  with  your  single  beef-eater  there? 
but  I'm  prepared  for  you,  and  insist  upon  my 
first  proposal.  You  shall  submit  your  own 
estate  to  my  management,  and  absolutely 
make  over  my  wife's  to  my  sole  use,  as  pur- 
suant to  the  purport  and  tenor  of  this  other 
covenant. — I  suppose,  madam,  your  consent 
is  not  requisite  in  this  case;  nor,  Mr.  Mira- 
bell,  your  resignation;  nor,  Sir  Wilfull,  your 
right. — You  may  draw  your  fox  if  you  please, 
sir,  and  make  a  bear-garden  flourish  some- 
where else:  for  here  it  will  not  avail.  This, 
my  Lady  Wishfort,  must  be  subscribed,  or 
your  darling  daughter's  turned  adrift,  like  a 


152 


THE  WAY  OF  THE  WORLD 


ACT  V,  Sc.  I. 


leaky  hulk,  to  sink  or  swim,  as  she  and  the 
current  of  this  lewd  town  can  agree. 

Lady  Wish.  Is  there  no  means,  no  remedy 
to  stop  my  ruin  ?  Ungrateful  wretch  !  dost 
thou  not  owe  thy  being,  thy  subsistence,  to 
my  daughter's  fortune  ? 

Fain.  I'll  answer  you  when  I  have  the  rest 
of  it  in  my  possession. 

Mir.  But  that  you  would  not  accept  of 
a  remedy  from  my  hands  —  I  own  I  have  not 
deserved  you  should  owe  any  obligation  to 
me;  or  else  perhaps  I  could  advise  — 

Lady  Wish.  O,  what?  what?  To  save  me 
and  my  child  from  ruin,  from  want,  I'll  for- 
give all  that's  past;  nay,  I'll  consent  to  any- 
thing to  come,  to  be  delivered  from  this 
tyranny. 

Mir.  Ay,  madam;  but  that  is  too  late,  my 
reward  is  intercepted.  You  have  disposed 
of  her  who  only  could  have  made  me  a  com- 
pensation for  all  my  services;  but  be  it  as  it 
may,  I  am  resolved  I'll  serve  you  !  you  shall 
not  be  wronged  in  this  savage  manner. 

Lady  Wish.  How!  dear  Mr.  Mirabell,  can 
you  be  so  generous  at  last  !  But  it  is  not 
possible.  Harkee,  I'll  break  my  nephew's 
match;  you  shall  have  my  niece  yet,  and 
all  her  fortune,  if  you  can  but  save  me  from 
this  imminent  danger. 

Mir.  Will  you?  I'll  take  you  at  your 
word.  I  ask  no  more.  I  must  have  leave  for 
two  criminals  to  appear. 

Lady  Wish.     Ay,  ay,  anybody,  anybody  ! 

Mir.     Foible  is  one,  and  a  penitent. 

Enter    MRS.    FAINALL,    FOIBLE,    and    MINCING. 

Mrs.  Mar.  Oh,  my  shame!  [MIRABELL  and 
LADY  WISHFORT  go  to  MRS.  FAINALL  and 
FOIBLE.]  These  corrupt  things  are  brought 


hither    to   expose    me. 
Fain.     If    it    must    all 


[To    FAINALL. 
come    out,    why    let 


.  , 

'em  know  it;  'tis  but  the  way  of  the  world. 
That  shall  not  urge  me  to  relinquish  or 
abate  one  tittle  of  my  terms;  no,  I  will  insist 
the  more. 

Foib.  Yes,  indeed,  madam,  I'll  take  my 
bible-oath  of  it. 

Min.     And  so  will  I,  mem. 

Lady  Wish.  O  Marwood,  Marwood,  art 
thou  false  ?  my  friend  deceive  me  !  hast  thou 
been  a  wicked  accomplice  with  that  profligate 
man? 

Mrs.  Mar.  Have  you  so  much  ingratitude 
and  injustice  to  give  credit  against  your 
friend,  to  the  aspersions  of  two  such  mer- 
cenary trulls  ? 

Min.  Mercenary,  mem  ?  I  scorn  your 
words.  'Tis  true  we  found  you  and  Mr.  Fain- 
all  in  the  blue  garret;  by  the  same  token, 
you  swore  us  to  secrecy  upon  Messalina's 
poems.  Mercenary!  No,  if  we  would  have 
been  mercenary,  we  should  have  held  our 
tongues;  you  would  have  bribed  us  suffi- 
ciently. 


Fain.  Go,  you  are  an  insignificant  thing! 
— Well,  what  are  you  the  better  for  this;  is 
this  Mr.  Mirabell's  expedient?  I'll  be  put 
off  no  longer. — You  thing,  that  was  a  wife, 
shall  smart  for  this!  I  will  not  leave  thee 
wherewithal  to  hide  thy  shame;  your  body 
shall  be  naked  as  your  reputation. 

Mrs.  Fain.  I  despise  you,  and  defy  your 
malice! — you  have  aspersed  me  wrongfully — 
I  have  proved  your  falsehood — go  you  and 
your  treacherous — I  will  not  name  it,  but 
starve  together — perish ! 

Fain.  Not  while  you  are  worth  a  groat, 
indeed,  my  dear. — Madam,  I'll  be  fooled  no 
longer. 

Lady  Wish.  Ah,  Mr.  Mirabell,  this  is 
small  comfort,  the  detection  of  this  affair. 

Mir.  Oh,  in  good  time — your  leave  for  the 
other  offender  and  penitent  to  appear, 
madam. 

Enter  WAITWELL  with  a  box   of  writings. 

Lady  Wish.     O  Sir  Rowland !— Well,  rascal! 

Wait.  What  your  ladyship  pleases.  I 
have  brought  the  black  box  at  last,  madam. 

Mir.  Give  it  me. — Madam,  you  remember 
your  promise. 

Lady  Wish.     Ay,  dear  sir. 

Mir.     Where   are   the   gentlemen? 

Wait.  At  hand,  sir,  rubbing  their  eyes — 
just  risen  from  sleep. 

Fain.  'Sdeath,  what's  this  to  me?  I'll  not 
wait  your  private  concerns. 

Enter    PETULANT    and    WITWOUD. 

Pet.  How  now?  What's  the  matter? 
Whose  hand's  out? 

Wit.  Heyday!  what,  are  you  all  got  to- 
gether, like  players  at  the  end  of  the  last 
act? 

Mir.  You  may  remember,  gentlemen,  I 
once  requested  your  hands  as  witnesses  to 
a  certain  parchment. 

Wit.  Ay,  I  do,  my  hand  I  remember — 
Petulant  set  his  mark. 

Mir.  You  wrong  him,  his  name  is  fairly 
written,  as  shall  appear. — You  do  not  remem- 
ber, gentlemen,  anything  of  what  that  parch- 
ment contained? —  [Undoing  the  box. 

Wit.     No. 

Pet.     Not  I;  I  writ,  I  read  nothing. 

Mir.  Very  well,  now  you  shall  know. — 
Madam,  your  promise. 

Lady    Wish.     Ay,    ay,   sir,   upon   my    honor. 

Mir.  Mr.  Fainall,  it  is  now  time  that  you 
should  know  that  your  lady,  while  she  was  at 
her  own  disposal,  and  before  you  had  by  your 
insinuations  wheedled  her  out  of  a  pretended 
settlement  of  the  greatest  part  of  her  for- 
tune— 

Fain.     Sir!  pretended! 

Mir.  Yes,  sir.  I  say  that  this  lady  while 
_  widow,  having  it  seems  received  some 
cautions  respecting  your  inconstancy  and 


153 


EPILOGUE 


THE  WAY  OF  THE  WORLD 


tyranny  of  temper,  which  from  her  own 
partial  opinion  and  fondness  of  you  she 
could  never  have  suspected— she  did,  I  say, 
by  the  wholesome  advice  of  friends,  and  of 
sages  learned  in  the  laws  of  this  land,  de- 
liver this  same  as  her  act  and  deed  to  me  in 
trust,  and  to  the  uses  within  mentioned. 
You  may  read  if  you  please — [.Holding  out 
the  parchment}  though  perhaps  what  is  writ- 
ten on  the  back  may  serve  your  occasions. 

Fain.  Very  likely,  sir.  What's  here?— 
Damnation!  [Reads.]  A  deed  of  conveyance 
of  the  whole  estate  real  of  Arabella  Languish, 
widow,  in  trust  to  Edward  Mirabell. — Con- 
fusion ! 

Mir.  Even  so,  sir;  'tis  the  way  of  the 
world,  sir,  of  the  widows  of  the  world.  I 
suppose  this  deed  may  bear  an  elder  date 
than  what  you  have  obtained  from  your  lady. 

Fain.  Perfidious  fiend!  then  thus  I'll  be 
revenged. 

[Offers  to  run  at  MRS.  FAIN  ALL. 

Sir  Wil.  Hold,  sir!  Now  you  may  make 
your  bear-garden  flourish  somewhere  else, 
sir. 

Fain.  Mirabell,  you  shall  hear  of  this,  sir, 
be  sure  you  shall. — Let  me  pass,  oaf! 

[Exit. 

Mrs.  Fain.  Madam,  you  seem  to  stifle 
your  resentment;  you  had  better  give  it 
vent. 

Mrs.  Mar.  Yes,  it  shall  have  vent— and 
to  your  confusion;  or  I'll  perish  in  the  at- 
tempt. [Exit. 

Lady  Wish.  O  daughter,  daughter!  Tis 
plain  thou  hast  inherited  thy  mother's  pru- 
dence. 

Mrs.  Fain.  Thank  Mr.  Mirabell,  a  cautious 
friend,  to  whose  advice  all  is  owing. 

Lady  Wish.  Well,  Mr.  Mirabell,  you  have 
kept  your  promise — and  I  must  perform 
mine. — First,  I  pardon,  for  your  sake,  Sir 
Rowland  there,  and  Foible;  the  next  thing  is 
to  break  the  matter  to  my  nephew — and  how 
to  do  that— 

Mir.  For  that,  madam,  give  yourself  no 
trouble;  let  me  have  your  consent.  Sir  Wil- 
full  is  my  friend;  he  has  had  compassion 
upon  lovers,  and  generously  engaged  a  vol- 
unteer in  this  action,  for  our  service;  and 
now  designs  to  prosecute  his  travels. 

Sir  Wil.  S'heart,  aunt,  I  have  no  mind  to 
marry.  My  cousin's  a  fine  lady,  and  the 
gentleman  loves  her,  and  she  loves  him,  and 
they  deserve  one  another;  my  resolution  is 
to  see  foreign  parts— I  have  set  on't — and 
when  I'm  set  on't  I  must  do't.  And  if  these 
two  gentlemen  would  travel  too,  I  think  they 
may  be  spared. 

Pet.  For  my  part,  I  say  little— I  think 
things  are  best  off  or  on. 

Wit.  I'gad,  I  understand  nothing  of  the 
matter;  I'm  in  a  maze  yet,  like  a  dog  in  a 
dancing-school. 


Lady  Wish.  Well,  sir,  take  her,  and  with 
her  all  the  joy  I  can  give  you. 

Mrs.  Mil.  Why  does  not  the  man  take 
me?  Would  you  have  me  give  myself  to  you 
over  again  ? 

Mir.  Ay,  and  over  and  over  again;  [Kisses 
her  hand.]  I  would  have  you  as  often  as 
possibly  I  can.  Well,  Heaven  grant  I  love 
you  not  too  well,  that's  all  my  fear. 

Sir  Wil.  S'heart,  you'll  have  time  enough 
to  toy  after  you're  married;  or  if  you  will 
toy  now,  let  us  have  a  dance  in  the  mean- 
time, that  we  who  are  not  lovers  may  have 
some  other  employment  besides  looking  on. 

Mir.  With  all  my  heart,  dear  Sir  Wilfull. 
What  shall  we  do  for  music? 

Foib.  Oh,  sir,  some  that  were  provided 
for  Sir  Rowland's  entertainment  are  yet 
within  call.  [A  dance. 

Lady  Wish.  As  I  am  a  person,  I  can  hold 
out  no  longer;  I  have  wasted  my  spirits  so 
to-day  already,  that  I  am  ready  to  sink  un- 
der the  fatigue;  and  I  cannot  but  have  some 
fears  upon  me  yet,  that  my  son  Fainall  will 
pursue  some  desperate  course. 

Mir.  Madam,  disquiet  not  yourself  on  that 
account;  to  my  knowledge  his  circumstances 
are  such  he  must  of  force  comply.  For  my 
part,  I  will  contribute  all  that  in  me  lies  to 
a  reunion;  in  the  meantime,  madam — [To 
MRS.  FAINALL.]  let  me  before  these  witnesses 
restore  to  you  this  deed  of  trust:  it  may  be 
a  means,  well-managed,  to  make  you  live 
easily  together. 

From  hence  let  those  be  warned,  who  mean 

to   wed; 

Lest  mutual  falsehood  stain  the  bridal  bed; 
For  each  deceiver  to  his  cost  may  find 
That   marriage-frauds    too    oft   are   paid    in 

kind.  [Exeunt   ornnes. 


EPILOGUE 

SPOKEN    BY    MRS.    BRACEGIRDLE 

After  our  Epilogue  this  crowd  dismisses, 
I'm    thinking    how    this    play'll    be    pulled    to 

pieces. 
But  pray  consider,  ere  you  doom  its  fall, 


How  hard 
all. 


a   thing  'twould  be  to  please  you 


There  are  some  critics  so  with  spleen  dis- 
eased, 

They   scarcely   come  inclining   to  be  pleased: 

And  sure  he  must  have  more  than  mortal 
skill, 

Who  pleases  any  one  against  his  will. 

Then  all  bad  poets  we  are  sure  are  foes, 

And  how  their  number's  swelled,  the  town 
well  knows: 

In  shoals  I've  marked  'em  judging  in  the 
pit; 

Though  they're,  on  no  pretence,  for  judgment 
fit, 


154 


THE  WAY  OF  THE  WORLD 


EPILOGUE 


But  that  they  have  been  damned  for  want 
of  wit. 

Since  when,  they  by  their  own  offences 
taught, 

Set  up  for  spies  on  plays,   and   finding:  fault. 

Others  there  are  whose  malice  we'd  pre- 
vent; 

Such  who  watch  plays  with  scurrilous  intent 

To   mark   out  who  by   characters  are   meant. 

And  though  no  perfect  likeness  they  can 
trace, 

Yet  each  pretends  to  know   the   copied  face. 

These  with  false  glosses  feed  their  own  ill 
nature, 

And  turn  to  libel  what  was   meant  a  satire. 

May   such   malicious   fops    this   fortune    find, 


To     think     themselves    alone     the    fools    de- 
signed: 

If   any  are   so  arrogantly  vain, 
To    think    they    singly   can    support   a    scene, 
And    furnish    fool    enough    to    entertain. 
For  well  the  learned  and  the  judicious  know 
That   satire  scorns    to   stoop   so  meanly  low, 
As  any  one  abstracted  fop  to  show. 
For,  as  when  painters  form  a  matchless  face, 
They   from  each   fair  one   catch    some   differ- 
ent grace; 

And   shining   features  in   one  portrait  blend, 
To  which  no  single  beauty  must  pretend; 
So  poets   oft  do  in   one  piece   expose 
Whole     belles-assemblees     of     coquettes    and 
beaux. 


155 


GEORGE    FARQUHAR 


THE    BEAUX'    STRATAGEM 


GEORGE  FARQUHAR'S  life-portrait  may  be  viewed  as  a  composite  of  the 
features  of  several  other  dramatists  in  our  volume.  In  the  circumstances 
of  his  Irish  birth  and  Dublin  University  training,  the  last  of  the  Restoration 
writers  of  comedy  closely  resembles  Goldsmith,  whose  chief  stage-success 
owes  to  him  so  much.  In  his  youthful  failure  as  an  actor,  in  his  triumphant 
decade  as  a  playwright,  and  in  his  early  and  wretched  end,  he  recalls  the 
unhappy  Otway.  In  the  large  sympathy  of  his  intellect  with  the  robust  and 
joyous  life  of  town  and  country,  he  has  much  in  common  with  Harry  Field- 
ing, who  drew  his  first  breath  in  pleasant  Somerset  just  a  week  before 
Farquhar  died,  April  29,  1/07,  in  his  London  garret. 

Very  little  is  known  of  Farquhar's  origin.  The  date  of  his  birth,  1677 
or  1678,  the  gentility  of  his  parentage,  the  site  of  his  father's  Irish  parish,  are 
alike  uncertain.  The  poems  of  his  boyhood,  "  moral  verses  "  and  pompous 
"  Pindaricks,"  bred  in  him  no  jigging  vein,  for  knack  at  rime  was  ever 
denied  him.  His  hazy  career  as  sizar  at  Trinity  College,  Dublin,  after  his 
Londonderry  lessons  were  over  in  1694,  was  perhaps  stopped  short  by  a  bit 
of  boyish  irreverence ;  but  this  inglorious  tradition  is  of  the  vaguest.  In  his 
twentieth  year  he  is  suffering  the  horrors  of  stage  fright  on  Dublin  boards, 
ridiculously  enough  in  his  first  role  of  "  valiant  Othello."  He  essays  many 
other  parts  with  no  marked  success,  but  his  accidental  wounding  of  a 
brother-actor  soon  drives  him  from  the  stage  in  disgust.  Then  he  is  off  to 
London  by  the  advice  of  the  famous  English  actor,  Robert  Wilks,  whose 
friendship  always  stands  him  in  stead.  If  unlike  many  another  fortune- 
seeking  youth,  he  has  no  play  in  his  pocket,  one  is  soon  in  the  making,  and 
Love  and  a  Bottle  is  staged  at  the  end  of  1698.  Here,  as  so  often  in  Far- 
quhar's later  comedies,  the  temptation  is  strong  to  identify  the  penniless 
young  Irish  rake  of  the  piece  with  the  adventurous  author,  but  it  is  dan- 
gerous to  push  such  a  parallel.  Not  to  pause  over  that  bit  of  picaresque 
writing,  which  may  or  may  not  be  Farquhar's  own,  The  Adventures  of  Covent 
Garden,  the  next  year  sees  the  production  of  his  second  comedy,  The  Con- 
stant Couple,  which  ran  for  over  fifty  nights  with  Wilks  in  the  chief  role 
of  Sir  Harry  Wildair  and  with  Norris  in  the  laughable  part  of  Dicky,  the 

156 


THE  BEAUX'  STRATAGEM 


servant.  Far  inferior  is  the  sequel,  Sir  Harry  Wildair,  acted  in  1701 ;  but 
there  is  no  need  to  explain  this  inferiority  as  the  unhappy  result  of  Farqu- 
har's  infatuation  for  a  fair  unknown — some  say,  Anne  Oldfield,  whom  the 
dramatist  had  discovered,  a  rich-voiced  girl  of  sixteen,  in  her  aunt's  tavern 
and  introduced  to  the  stage.  Though  that  charming  woman  graced  later  the 
roles  of  Farquhar's  chief  heroines,  as  Mrs.  Barry  did  those  of  Otway,  and 
maintained  always  her  friendship  with  the  dramatist,  we  have  small  reason 
to  suspect  that  she  is  the  "  Penelope "  of  his  fervent  love-letters.  Farqu- 
har's marriage,  a  year  or  two  later,  furnishes  nought  of  romance  but  a 
grim  suggestion  of  a  comic  motive  that  serves  him  well  in  his  greatest 
play.  Some  feminine  Aimwell  from  the  North  dupes  the  gay,  handsome, 
young  fellow  by  large  pretensions  to  wealth ;  but  Farquhar,  though  a  for- 
tune-hunter, is  of  gentler  stuff  than  Thackeray's  Deuce-ace  and  greatly  to 
his  honor  "never  once  upbraided  her  with  the  cheat." 

Farquhar's  pen  is  still  busy,  and  to  some  purpose.  In  1702  appears  his 
Love  and  Business, — a  miscellany  of  stray  verses,  letters  from  Holland,  a 
sensible  essay  upon  "  Comedy,"  and  copies  of  love-letters — revealing  the 
author  as  "  half  an  actor,  a  quarter  a  poet,  and  altogether  a  very  honest  and 
gallant  gentleman."  Two  unsuccessful  comedies,  The  Inconstant  and  The 
Twin-Rivals  (a  thing  of  merit),  a  farce  adapted  from  the  French,  The  Stage 
Coach,  and  a  halting  epic,  Barcelona,  occupy  the  time  between  1702  and 
1705.  For  several  years  he  has  held  an  army  commission,  like  Steele  and 
Vanbrugh,  his  friends,  and  in  1706  he  turns  to  capital  account  his  own 
experience  at  Shrewsbury  in  his  joyous  comedy,  The  Recruiting  Officer,  with 
its  memorable  figures  of  Captain  Plume  and  Silvia  and,  best  of  all,  Sergeant 
Kite.  After  this  signal  triumph  dark  days  come  upon  him,  as  upon  Otway. 
Relying  upon  the  assurances  of  the  Duke  of  Ormond,  whose  "  Grace  makes 
promises  trifles  indeed"  (see  Archer's  song  in  The  Beaux'  Stratagem,  III, 
iii),  he  sells,  in  confident  hope  of  other  preferment,  his  commission  for  the 
benefit  of  his  creditors  and  is  soon  plunged  in  misery  and  poverty.  No  final 
stage-scene  is  more  replete  with  irony  than  the  last  act  of  Farquhar's  own 
life-drama.  The  poor  jester  must  "  go  to  bed  at  noon  " — he  is  barely  thirty — 
but,  though  overwhelmed  with  want  and  settled  sickness,  he  still  has 
strength  in  him  for  his  merriest  peal  of  laughter.  A  dying  man,  he  writes 
in  six  weeks,  at  the  urging  of  the  loyal  Wilks,  who  provides  a  retainer  of 
twenty  guineas,  his  greatest  comedy — perhaps  the  greatest,  as  it  is  the  last, 
of  all  the  comedies  of  the  so-called  Restoration  period.  While  the  Hay- 
market  is  ringing  with  the  applause  that  greets  The  Beaux'  Stratagem  in 
April,  1707  (see  the  pathetic  epilogue),  Farquhar  passes  away  in  his  wretched 
attic  in  St.  Martin's  Lane,  entrusting  his  "  two  helpless  girls  "  to  his  friend's 
protection.  The  situation  rivals  in  grisly  mockery  the  expiring  Moliere's 
mirth  in  his  last  interpretation  of  Le  Malade  Imaginaire. 

The  dates  of  Farquhar's  plays  suggest  a  seeming  paradox.  All  the 
work  of  the  last  Restoration  dramatist  was  done  after  Jeremy  Collier's 

157 


THE  BEAUX'  STRATAGEM 


vehement  philippic,  A  Short  View  of  the  Immorality  and  Profaneness  of  the 
English  Stage  (1698),  had  dealt,  thus  many  have  maintained,  a  death-blow 
to  the  Restoration  drama.  As  if  in  despite,  Farquhar's  gay  world  of  riotous 
animal  spirits  seems  abundantly  alive.  And  yet  his  essay  upon  "  Comedy," 
and  his  prologues  show  that  the  playwright  was  profoundly  influenced  by  the 
preacher,  at  least  in  his  professions.  Amusingly  enough,  he  sets  up  as  a 
censor  of  morals.  "  Comedy,"  he  declares',  "  is  a  well-framed  tale  handsomely 
told  as  an  agreeable  vehicle  for  counsel  and  reproof."  It  is  his  boast  that 
he  will  improve  upon  Collier's  invective  and  "  make  the  stage  flourish  by 
virtue  of  his  satire."  More  than  once  he  assures  the  ladies  that  they  may 
smile  without  blushing  for  "  here's  no  slander,  no  smut,  no  lewd-tongued 
beau,  no  double-entendre."  All  this  is  very  well;  but,  as  with  Fielding,  who 
takes  the  same  tone  in  his  engaging  prefaces,  the  gap  between  precept  and 
practice  is  enormous.  The  color  must  have  been  fast  set  by  art  in  cheeks 
that  are  unchanged  in  hue  when  Farquhar  and  Fielding  laugh  the  loudest. 
The  little  homily  is  over  and  forgotten,  and  the  "  modest  air "  yields  to 
"waggish  action"  (the  phrases  are  Farquhar's  own).  It's  a  mad  world, 
my  masters,  life  seems  but  a  turmoil  of  the  senses,  a  riot  of  wild  blood;  and 
youth,  pledged  to  love  and  a  bottle,  is  willing  to  forego  none  of  its  trinity 
of  joys,  not  even  song.  Let  us  be  grateful  for  this  much  of  virtue — that 
Restoration  Comedy  now  abandons  the  covert  wink  and  cruel  leer,  the  un- 
clean innuendo,  the  prurient  suggestion,  and  becomes  wholesome,  if  not 
always  decent.  In  Farquhar  there  is,  of  course,  not  the  faintest  element  of 
the  simpering  prudery  and  tearful  sentimentality  of  the  bourgeois  comedy  of 
reaction  against  the  drama  of  large  license. 

The  difference  between  Farquhar  and  his  immediate  forerunners  in 
comedy  is  rather  of  temperament  than  of  time.  Unlike  them  he  has  a  gen- 
erous nature  overflowing  with  sympathy  and  charity.  In  his  modest  account 
of  himself  he  reveals  a  temper  the  reverse  of  libertine:  "  I  hate  all  pleasure 
that's  purchased  by  excess  of  pain ;  "  "  The  greatest  proof  of  my  affection 
that  a  lady  must  expect  is  this — I  would  run  any  hazard  to  make  us  both 
happy,  but  would  not  for  any  transitory  pleasure  make  us  both  miserable." 
Hence  his  dashing  beaux,  his  Harry  Wildair,  his  Archer  and  Aimwell,  have 
not,  like  the  gallants  of  Wycherley  and  Congreve,  "  foreheads  of  bronze, 
hearts  like  the  nether  millstone  and  tongues  set  on  fire  of  hell"  (Macaulay). 
Rattle-brained  scapegraces  they  are  to  be.  sure,  but  they  are  quite  without 
malice  and  inspire  no  contempt  and  loathing.  Joyous  adventurers,  they  fight, 
love,  and  banter  in  .a  breath,  but  their  warm  hearts  preserve  them  from 
selfish  irresponsibility  and  render  them  quite  unequal  to  the  task  of  villains. 
Reason,  honor,  and  gratitude  are  as  strong  in  these  delightful  rascals  as  in 
the  high-spirited  prodigals  of  Goldsmith  and  Sheridan ;  for  they  are,  in 
Hazlitt's  happy  phrase,  "  real  gentlemen  and  only  pretended  impostors." 
Archer's  voluble  good-fellowship  in  his  footman's  cloak  renders  him  every- 
body's friend  and  equal,  and  Aimwell's  scruples  assert  themselves  even  at 

158 


THE  BEAUX'  STRATAGEM 


the  cost  of  his  marriage  prospects.  Miss  Guiney  puts  it  prettily — "  none  of 
the  old  deviltry,  though  much  of  the  old  swagger." 

A  marked  sign  of  changing  taste  is  observed  in  Farquhar's  extension  of 
the  range  of  comic  interest.  His  predecessors  had  been  content  to  paint 
"  beaux  and  belles  enamored  of  themselves  in  one  another's  follies  and  flut- 
tering like  gilded  butterflies  in  giddy  mazes  through  the  walks  of  St.  James's 
Park,"  and  in  his  earlier  plays  he  followed  their  example.  But  in  his  two 
later  and  better  comedies  he  deserts  the  conventional  West  End  back- 
ground of  Park  and  Mall,  he  turns  away  even  from  "  the  sweet  smoke  of 
Cheapside  and  the  dear  perfume  of  Fleet  Ditch,"  and  to  the  ringing  notes 
of  his  merry  ballad-music,  "  Over  the  hills  and  far  away,"  carries  his  audi- 
ence with  him  to  some  county-  or  cathedral-town  deep  in  the  provinces,  to 
Shrewsbury  or  Lichfield.  Instead  of  the  inevitable  seventeenth-century 
drawing-room  or  city-lodging  of  Wycherley  and  Congreve,  his  scenes  are 
those  most  familiar  in  eighteenth-century  fiction,  the  market-place,  the  broad 
highway,  the  river  walk,  the  country-inn,  the  squire's  hall.  And  in  this  new 
setting,  what  a  host  of  new  characters !  Every  figure  of  The  Beaux'  Strata- 
gem is  memorable : — the  rollicking  "  knight-errants,"  Aimwell  and  Archer ; 
the  knavish  landlord  drawn  very  much  from  life,  Boniface — whose  name 
has  become  proverbial  of  his  class — confederate  of  highwaymen  yet  honestly 
eloquent  over  the  merits  of  his  Anno  Domini;  Gibbet  and  his  brace  of 
rogues,  no  idealized  Turpins  or  Du  Vals,  but  as  humorously  realistic  ruffians 
as  Stevenson's  greedy  pirates ;  Scrub,  a  real  person  too,  one  of  the  most 
amusing  serving  men  of  the  comic  stage  with  his  cowardice  and  his  itching 
palm ;  and  the  delicious  Cherry,  tight  of  waist,  quick  of  eye,  and  true  of 
heart.  The  provincial  gentlefolk  are  equally  amusing: — that  best  of  women, 
Lady  Bountiful,  ever  "  spreading  of  plasters,  brewing  of  diet-drinks  and 
stilling  rosemary-water " ;  Squire  Sullen,  her  son,  not  a  fiend  like  Van- 
brugh's  Sir  John  Brute,  not  a  savage  like  Fielding's  Western,  but  a  dull 
animal  sodden  with  drink  and  hence  thick  of  speech  and  loutish  of  manner, 
perpetual  offence  to  the  fine  lady  from  London,  his  wife,  sprightly,  witty,  and 
far  more  alluring  than  her  sister-in-law,  the  somewhat  shadowy  Dorinda. 
Strangely  enough  the  only  failure  among  the  persons  is  the  author's  own 
countryman,  the  Jesuit  priest,  Foigard,  who  arouses  with  his  wonderful 
jargon  the  wrath  of  sensitive  Irish  editors.  Even  the  Frenchman  Bellair, 
though  omitted  in  acting  versions,  is  more  convincing. 

Not  only  through  genial  characterization,  but  through  laughing  mastery 
over  action  is  Farquhar  eminent.  In  this  high  quality  indeed  he  seems  easily 
the  first  of  his  group.  "  The  Beaux'  Stratagem,"  says  Hazlitt,  "  is  infinitely 
lively,  bustling  and  full  of  point  and  interest ;  the  assumed  disguise  of 
Archer  and  Aimwell  is  a  perpetual  amusement  to  the  mind."  In  this  straight- 
forward story  we  are  never  confused  as  by  the  labyrinthine  intricacy  of 
The  Way  of  the  World.  The  plot  knows  no  dull  moments,  but  from  its 
breezy  beginning  in  the  arrival  of  the  crowd  on  the  London  coach  develops 

159 


THE  BEAUX'  STRATAGEM 


steadily  and  rapidly,  with  the  interest  shifting  gaily  from  inn  to  hall,  through 
a  series  of  incidents  at  once  humorous  and  sensational  though  never  un- 
natural, to  a  highly  agreeable  resolution  in  the  beaux'  full  triumph.  At  the 
mutual  separation  of  Squire  Sullen  and  his  wife  in  the  last  scene,  Nance 
Oldfield,  the  actress,  was  the  first  to  cavil;  but  her  objection,  turned  aside 
by  Farquhar  with  a  death -bed  jest,  is  answered  by  William  Archer,  who 
deems  "  this  discussion  of  the  ethics  of  divorce  not  only  the  admission  of  a 
moral  standard,  but  a  homage  to  the  idea  of  marriage  which  Wycherley, 
Congreve,  or  Vanbrugh  would  never  have  dreamt  of  paying."  In  any  case  we 
could  ill  afford  to  spare  one  of  the  cleverest  bits  of  give  and  take  in  ^the 
comic  drama.  Single  scenes  of  the  play  are  admirable.  In  Farquhar's  mer- 
riest vein  are  Cherry's  love-catechism,  Mrs.  Sullen's  lively  picture  of  her 
drunken  husband's  home-coming,  Aimwell's  laughable  account  of  the  appear- 
ance of  the  stranger  in  the  country  church,  and  Archer's  delightful  diag- 
nosis of  his  friend's  stroke  of  love.  Only  the  scene  between  Archer  and 
Foigard  in  Act  IV  clamors  loudly  for  reconstruction. 

All  critics  have  noticed  that  Farquhar's  finest  effects  are  derived  rather 
from  the  humor  of  his  situations  than  from  the  wit  of  his  dialogues.  Not 
that  wit  is  wanting  in  him,  as  Mrs.  Sullen's  brilliancy  amply  attests,  nor 
that  he  disdains  the  miniature  social  essay,  for  the  gossipy  news  of  the  town 
in  the  first  scene  and  the  delicious  criticism  of  country  life  in  the  second 
act  anticipate  the  urban  chat  of  Will  Honeycomb  of  The  Spectator.  He 
can  make,  too,  such  famously  happy  phrases  as  Scrub's  "  I  believe,  they  talked 
of  me,  for  they  laughed  consumedly,"  and  Gibbet's  "  'Twas  for  the  good 
of  my  country  that  I  should  be  abroad."  His  style  is  ever  easy  and  natural. 
But  conduct  rather  than  conversation  being  his  study,  he  is,  unlike  the  inim- 
itable Congreve,  no  consummate  master  of  the  quick  foil  of  delicate  repartee 
and  artful  innuendo.  He  seldom  dazzles  us  with  flashing  epigrams  and 
sparkling  conceits,  airy  trifles  of  the  Restoration  smart  set.  Because  in  him 
this  fineness,  this  preciosity  of  the  inner  circle,  yields  to  the  provincial  and 
the  picaresque,  because  his  accent  is  not  of  "  modish  wit,"  but,  as  Mr.  William 
Archer  says,  of  "  unforced  buoyant  gaiety,"  his  diction  has  been  forever 
branded  by  Pope,  the  arch-poet  of  artificial  life,  in  the  single  line,  "  What 
pert,  low  dialogue  has  Farquhar  writ !  " 

An  interesting  phase  of  Farquhar's  art  is  his  intense  hatred  of  formalism. 
"  The  rules  of  English  comedy,"  he  writes  in  that  admirable  essay  of  1702, 
"  don't  lie  in  the  compass  of  Aristotle  or  his  followers,  but  in  the  pit,  box, 
and  galleries.  .  .  .  We  shall  find  that  these  gentlemen  [Shakspere,  Jonson, 
Fletcher]  have  fairly  dispensed  with  the  greatest  part  of  critical  formalities ; 
the  decorums  of  time  and  place,  so  much  cried  up  of  late,  had  no  force  of 
decorum  with  them ;  the  economy  of  their  plays  was  ad  libitum,  and  the 
extent  of  their  plays  only  limited  by  the  convenience  of  action.  ...  A  play 
may  be  written  with  all  the  exactness  imaginable,  in  respect  of  unity  in  time 
and  place;  but  if  you  inquire  its  character  of  any  person,  though  of  the 

160 

\ 


THE  BEAUX'  STRATAGEM  PROLOGUE 

meanest  understanding  of  the  whole  audience,  he  will  tell  you  it  is  intolerable 
stuff."  Again  in  the  Prologue  to  Sir  Harry  Wildair,  he  swears  that  he  cares 
not  a  pin  for  "  learned  pens  "  and  "  musty  books,"  and  assures  his  hearers, 
"  You  are  the  rules  by  which  he  writes  his  plays."  And  the  Epilogue  to  The 
Twin-Rivals  likewise  hails  the  audience  as  the  supreme  court  of  judgment, 
"If  you  have  damned  the  play,  no  power  can  save  it."  Farquhar's  complete 
confidence  in  the  popular  taste,  a  notable  contrast  to  the  stereotyped  contempt 
of  "the  great  vulgar,"  has  been  abundantly  justified  by  the  instant  success 
and  long  vogue  of  his  best  comedies. 

Since  its  first  appearance  on  March  8,  1/07,  The  Beaux'  Stratagem  has 
been  presented  to  more  audiences  and  by  greater  actors  than  any  other  light 
drama  of  the  Restoration — not  excepting  even  The  Recruiting  Officer.  Its 
first  cast — Wilks  as  Archer,  Verbruggen  as  Sullen,  "  Dicky "  Norris  as 
Scrub,  Colley  Abber  as  Gibbet,  and  Nance  Oldfield  as  Mrs.  Sullen — established 
a  splendid  precedent,  well  sustained  by  such  interpreters  as  Garrick,  in  light 
blue  and  silver  livery,  and  Charles  Kemble  as  Archer,  Quin  as  Sullen,  Weston, 
Macklin,  and  Listen  as  Scrub  (a  role  taken  more  than  once  by  women), 
Kitty  Clive  as  Cherry,  and  many  famous  actresses,  Mrs.  Pritchard,  Peg 
Woffington,  Mrs.  Abington,  Miss  Farren,  and  Mrs.  Jordan,  in  the  part  of 
Mrs.  Sullen.  The  last  revival  of  the  play  was  at  the  Imperial  Theatre,  Lon- 
don, on  September  22,  1879,  with  William  Farren  in  Archer's  role. 


THE    BEAUX'    STRATAGEM 

ADVERTISEMENT 

The  reader  may  find  some  faults  in  this  play, 
which  my  illness  prevented  the  amending  of; 
but  there  is  great  amends  made  in  the  represen- 
tation, which  cannot  be  matched,  no  more  than 
the  friendly  and  indefatigable  care  of  Mr.  Wilks, 
to  whom  I  chiefly  owe  the  success  of  the  play. 

GEORGE  FARQUHAR. 

PROLOGUE 

Spoken  by  Mr.  Wilks 

When  strife  disturbs,  or  sloth  corrupts  an  age, 
Keen  satire  is  the  business  of  the  stage. 
When  the  Plain-Dealer  writ,  he  lash'd  those  crimes, 
Which  then  infested  most — the  modish  times: 
But  now,  when  faction  sleeps,  and  sloth  is  fled, 
And  all  our  youth  in  active  fields  are  bred ; 

161 


PROLOGUE 


THE  BEAUX'  STRATAGEM 


When  through  Great  Britain's  fair  extensive  round, 
The  trumps  of  fame,  the  notes  of  UNION  sound; 
When  Anna's  sceptre  points  the  laws  their  course, 
And  her  example  gives  her  precepts  force: 
There  scarce  is  room  for  satire;  all  our  lays 
Must  be,  or  songs  of  triumph,  or  of  praise. 
But  as  in  grounds  best  cultivated,  tares 
And  poppies  rise  among  the  golden  ears; 
Our  product  so,  fit  for  the  field  or  school, 
Must  mix  with  nature's  favorite  plant — a  fool: 
A  weed  that  has  to  twenty  summers  ran, 
Shoots  up  in  stalk,  and  vegetates  to  man. 
Simpling  our  author  goes  from  field  to  field, 
And  culls  such  fools  as  may  diversion  yield; 
And,  thanks  to  nature,  there's  no  want  of  those, 
For  rain  or  shine,  the  thriving  coxcomb  grows. 
Follies  to-night  we  show  ne'er  lash'd  before, 
Yet  such  as  nature  shows  you  every  hour; 
Nor  can  the  pictures  give  a  just  offence, 
For  fools  are  made  for  jests  to  men  of  sense. 


DRAMATIS  PERSONS 


MEN 


f  Two  gentlemen  of  broken 

THOMAS  AIMWELL,  j      fortunes,     the     first    as 
FRANCIS  ARCHER,      •       master,  and  the  second 

[      as  servant. 
COUNT  BELLAIR,  A   French  Officer,  prisoner  at 

Lichfield. 
SQUIRE   SULLEN,    a   Country   Blockhead,   brutal 

to  his  Wife. 
SIR     CHARLES     FREEMAN,     a    Gentleman     from 

London,  brother  to  MRS.  SULLEN. 
FOIGARD,    a    Priest,     Chaplain    to    the    French 

Officers. 

GIBBET,    a    Highwayman. 
HOUNSLOW,  )  TT.      _ 
BAGSHOT,      \Hu    Companions. 
BONIFACE,    Landlord    of   the   Inn. 
SCRUB,   Servant  to  SQUIRE   SULLEN. 


WOMEN 


LADY  BOUNTIFUL,  an  old,  ch-il,  Country  Gentle- 
woman, that  cures  all  her  neighbors  of  all 
distempers,  and  foolishly  fond  of  her  son, 
SQUIRE  SULLEN. 

MRS.  SULLEN,  Her  Daughter-in-law,  wife  to 
SQUIRE  SULLEN. 

DORINDA,  LADY  BOUNTIFUL'S  Daughter. 

GIPSY,   Maid    to    the   Ladies. 

CHERRY,  the  Landlord's  Daughter  in  the  Inn. 


Tapster,   Coach-passengers,   Countryman,  Coun- 
trywoman, and  Servants. 

SCENE. — LICHFIELD. 


162 


THE  BEAUX'  STRATAGEM 


ACT  I,  Sc.  I. 


ACT  I 

SCENE  I 

A   Room  in  BONIFACE'S  Inn. 
Enter   BONIFACE   running. 

Bon.  Chamberlain!  maid!  Cherry!  daugh- 
ter Cherry!  all  asleep?  all  dead? 

Enter  CHERRY  running. 

Cher.  Here,  here!  why  d'ye  bawl  so, 
father?  d'ye  think  we  have  no  ears? 

Bon.  You  deserve  to  have  none,  you 
young  minx!  The  company  of  the  Warring- 
ton  coach  has  stood  in  the  hall  this  hour, 
and  nobody  to  show  them  to  their  chambers. 

Cher.  And  let  'em  wait,  father;  there's 
neither  red-coat  in  the  coach,  nor  footman 
behind  it. 

Bon.  But  they  threaten  to  go  to  another 
inn  to-night. 

Cher.  That  they  dare  not,  for  fear  the 
coachman  should  overturn  them  to-morrow. 
— Coming !  coming ! — Here's  the  London  coach 
arrived. 

Enter   several   people    with   trunks,    bandboxes, 
and  other  luggage,   and   cross  the  stage. 

Bon.     Welcome,  ladies! 

Cher.  Very  welcome,  gentlemen! — Cham- 
berlain, show  the  Lion  and  the  Rose. 

[.Exit  with  the  company. 

Enter  AIMWELL  in  a  riding-habit,  and  ARCHER 
as  footman,   carrying  a  portmantle. 

Bon.     This  way,  this  way,  gentlemen! 

Aim.  [To  ARCHER.]  Set  down  the  things; 
go  to  the  stable,  and  see  my  horses  well 
rubbed. 

Arch.     I  shall,   sir.  [Exit. 

Aim.     You're   my   landlord,   I    suppose? 

Bon.  Yes,  sir,  I'm  old  Will  Boniface, 
pretty  well  known  upon  this  road,  as  the 
saying  is. 

Aim.     O   Mr.  Boniface,   your   servant! 

Bon.  O  sir! — What  will  your  honor  please 
to  drink,  as  the  saying  is  ? 

Aim.  I  have  heard  your  town  of  Lichfield 
much  famed  for  ale;  I  think  I'll  taste  that. 

Bon.  Sir,  I  have  now  in  my  cellar  ten 
tun  of  the  best  ale  in  Staffordshire;  'tis 
smooth  as  oil,  sweet  as  milk,  clear  as  am- 
ber, and  strong  as  brandy;  and  will  be  just 
fourteen  year  old  the  fifth  day  of  next  March, 
old  style. 

Aim.  You're  very  exact,  I  find,  in  the  age 
of  your  ale. 

Bon.  As  punctual,  sir,  as  I  am  in  the  age 
of  my  children.  I'll  show  you  such  ale ! — 
Here,  tapster,  broach  number  1706,  as  the  say- 
ing is. — Sir,  you  shall  taste  my  Anno  Domini. 


— I  have  lived  in  Lichfield,  man  and  boy, 
above  eight-and-fifty  years,  and,  I  believe, 
have  not  consumed  eight-and-fifty  ounces  of 
meat. 

Aim.  At  a  meal,  you  mean,  if  one  may 
guess  your  sense  by  your  bulk. 

Bon.  Not  in  my  life,  sir:  I  have  fed  purely 
upon  ale;  I  have  eat  my  ale,  drank  my  ale, 
and  I  always  sleep  upon  ale. 

Enter  Tapster  with  a  bottle  and  glass,  and  exit. 

Now,  sir,  you  shall  see!  [Filling  it  out.}  Your 
worship's  health. — Ha!  delicious,  delicious! 
fancy  it  burgundy,  only  fancy  it,  and  'tis 
worth  ten  shillings  a  quart. 

Aim.   [Drinks.]    'Tis  confounded  strong! 

Bon.  Strong!  it  must  be  so,  or  how  should 
we  be  strong  that  drink  it? 

Aim.  And  have  you  lived  so  long  upon 
this  ale,  landlord  ? 

Bon.  Eight-and-fifty  years,  upon  my 
credit,  sir — but  it  killed  my  wife,  poor 
woman,  as  the  saying  is. 

Aim.     How  came  that  to  pass? 

Bon.  I  don't  know  how,  sir;  she  would 
not  let  the  ale  take  its  natural  course,  sir; 
she  was  for  qualifying  it  every  now  and 
then  with  a  dram,  as  the  saying  is;  and  an 
honest  gentleman  that  came  this  way  from 
Ireland,  made  her  a  present  of  a  dozen  bot- 
tles of  usquebaugh — but  the  poor  woman  was 
never  well  after.  But,  howe'er,  I  was  obliged 
to  the  gentleman,  you  know. 

Aim.  Why,  was  it  the  usquebaugh  that 
killed  her? 

Bon.  My  Lady  Bountiful  said  so.  She, 
good  lady,  did  what  could  be  done;  she  cured 
her  of  three  tympanies,  but  the  fourth  car- 
ried her  off.  But  she's  happy,  and  I'm  con- 
tented, as  the  saying  is. 

Aim.  Who's  that  Lady  Bountiful  you  men- 
tioned ? 

Bon.  Ods  my  life,  sir,  we'll  drink  her  health. 
— [Drinks.]  My  Lady  Bountiful  is  one  of  the 
best  of  women.  Her  last  husband,  Sir 
Charles  Bountiful,  left  her  worth  a  thousand 
pound  a  year;  and,  I  believe,  she  lays  out 
one-half  on't  in  charitable  uses  for  the  good 
of  her  neighbors.  She  cures  rheumatisms, 
ruptures,  and  broken  shins  in  men;  green- 
sickness, obstructions,  and  fits  of  the  mother, 
in  women;  the  king's  evil,  chincough,  and 
chilblains,  in  children:  in  short,  she  has 
cured  more  people  in  and  about  Lichfield 
within  ten  years  than  the  doctors  have  killed 
in  twenty;  and  that's  a  bold  word. 

Aim.  Has  the  lady  been  any  other  way 
useful  in  her  generation? 

Bon.  Yes,  sir;  she  has  a  daughter  by  Sir 
Charles,  the  finest  woman  in  all  our  country, 
and  the  greatest  fortune.  She  has  a  son 
too,  by  her  first  husband,  Squire  Sullen,  who 
married  a  fine  lady  from  London  t'other  day; 
if  you  please,  sir,  we'll  drink  his  health. 


163 


ACT  I,  Sc.  I. 


THE  BEAUX'  STRATAGEM 


Aim.     What  sort  of  a  man  is  he? 

Bon.  Why,  sir,  the  man's  well  enough; 
says  little,  thinks  less,  and  does — nothing-  at 
all,  faith.  But  he's  a  man  of  a  great  estate, 
and  values  nobody. 

Aim.     A  sportsman,  I  suppose? 

Bon.  Yes,  sir,  he's  a  man  of  pleasure; 
he  plays  at  whisk  and  smokes  his  pipe  eight- 
and-forty  hours  together  sometimes. 

Aim.     And  married,  you  say? 

Bon.  Ay,  and  to  a  curious  woman,  sir. 
But  he's  a— he  wants  it  here,  sir. 

[Pointing  to   his  forehead. 

Aim.     He  has  it  there,  you  mean? 

Bon.  That's  none  of  my  business;  he's 
my  landlord,  and  so  a  man,  you  know, 
would  not — But— ecod,  he's  no  better  than — 
Sir,  my  humble  service  to  you. — [Drinks.] 
Though  I  value  not  a  farthing  what  he  can 
do  to  me;  I  pay  him  his  rent  at  quarter- 
day;  I  have  a  good  running-trade;  I  have 
but  one  daughter,  and  I  can  give  her — but 
no  matter  for  that. 

Aim.  You're  very  happy,  Mr.  Boniface. 
Pray,  what  other  company  have  you  in  town  ? 

Bon.  A  power  of  fine  ladies;  and  then 
we  have  the  French  officers. 

Aim.  Oh,  that's  right,  you  have  a  good 
many  of  those  gentlemen.  Pray,  how  do  you 
like  their  company? 

Bon.  So  well,  as  the  saying  is,  that  I 
could  wish  we  had  as  many  more  of  'em; 
they're  full  of  money,  and  pay  double  for 
everything  they  have.  They  know,  sir,  that 
we  paid  good  round  taxes  for  the  taking  of 
'em,  and  so  they  are  willing  to  reimburse  us 
a  little.  One  of  'em  lodges  in  my  house. 

Re-enter  ARCHER. 

Arch.  Landlord,  there  are  some  French 
gentlemen  below  that  ask  for  you. 

Bon.  I'll  wait  on  'em. — [Aside  to  ARCHER.] 
Does  your  master  stay  long  in  tow.,,  as  the 
saying  is? 

Arch.     I  can't  tell,  as  the  saying  is. 

Bon.     Come  from  London? 

Arch.     No. 

Bon.     Going   to  London,  mayhap? 

Arch.     No. 

Bon.  [Aside.1  An  odd  fellow  this.— [To 
AIMWELL.]  I  beg  your  worship's  pardon,  I'll 
wait  on  you  in  half  a  minute.  [Exit. 

Aim.  The  coast's  clear,  I  see. — Now,  my 
dear  Archer,  welcome  to  Lichfield ! 

Arch.  I  thank  thee,  my  dear  brother  in 
iniquity. 

Aim.  Iniquity!  prithee,  leave  canting;  you 
need  not  change  your  style  with  your  dress. 

Arch.  Don't  mistake  me,  Aimwell,  for  'tis 
still  my  maxim,  that  there  is  no  scandal 
like  rags,  nor  any  crime  so  shameful  as 
poverty. 

Aim.  The  world  confesses  it  every  day  in 
its  practice,  though  men  won't  own  it  for 


their  opinion.  Who  did  that  worthy  lord, 
my  brother,  single  out  of  the  side-box  to 
sup  with  him  t'other  night? 

Arch.  Jack  Handicraft,  a  handsome,  well- 
dressed,  mannerly,  sharping  rogue,  who 
keeps  the  best  company  in  town. 

Aim.  Right!  And,  pray,  who  married  my 
lady  Man-slaughter  t'other  day,  the  great 
fortune  ? 

Arch.  Why,  Nick  Marrabone,  a  professed 
pickpocket,  and  a  good  bowler;  but  he  makes 
a  handsome  figure,  and  rides  in  his  coach, 
that  he  formerly  used  to  ride  behind. 

Aim.  But  did  you  observe  poor  Jack  Gen- 
erous in  the  Park  last  week. 

Arch.  Yes,  with  his  autumnal  periwig, 
shading  his  melancholy  face,  his  coat  older 
than  anything  but  its  fashion,  with  one  hand 
idle  in  his  pocket,  and  with  the  other  pick- 
ing his  useless  teeth;  and,  though  the  Mall 
was  crowded  with  company,  yet  was  poor 
Jack  as  single  and  solitary  as  a  lion  in  a 
desert. 

Aim.  And  as  much  avoided,  for  no  crime 
upon  earth  but  the  want  of  money. 

Arch.  And  that's  enough.  Men  must  not 
be  poor;  idleness  is  the  root  of  all  evil;  the 
world's  wide  enough,  let  'em  bustle.  For- 
tune has  taken  the  weak  under  her  pro- 
tection, but  men  of  sense  are  left  to  their 
industry. 

Aim.  Upon  which  topic  we  proceed,  and, 
I  think,  luckily  hitherto.  Would  not  any 
man  swear  now,  that  I  am  a  man  of  quality, 
and  you  my  servant,  when  if  our  intrinsic 
value  were  known 

Arch.  Come,  come,  we  are  the  men  of  in- 
trinsic value  who  can  strike  our  fortunes  out 
of  ourselves,  whose  worth  is  independent  of 
accidents  in  life,  or  revolutions  in  govern- 
ment: we  have  heads  to  get  money  and 
hearts  to  spend  it. 

Aim.  As  to  our  hearts,  I  grant  ye,  they 
are  as  willing  tits  as  any  within  twenty  de- 
grees: but  I  can  have  no  great  opinion  of 
our  heads  from  the  service  they  have  done 
us  hitherto,  unless  it  be  that  they  have 
brought  us  from  London  hither  to  Lichfield, 
made  me  a  lord  and  you  my  servant. 

Arch.  That's  more  than  you  could  expect 
already.  But  what  money  have  we  left? 

Aim.     But    two    hundred    pound. 

Arch.  And  our  horses,  clothes,  rings,  etc. 
— Why,  we  have  very  good  fortunes  now  for 
moderate  people;  and,  let  me  tell  you  besides, 
that  this  two  hundred  pound,  with  the  ex- 
perience that  we  are  now  masters  of,  is  a 
better  estate  than  the  ten  thousand  we  have 
spent. — Our  friends,  indeed,  began  to  suspect 
that  our  pockets  were  low,  but  we  came  off 
with  flying  colors,  showed  no  signs  of  want 
either  in  word  or  deed. 

Aim.  Ay,  and  our  going  to  Brussels  was  a 
good  pretence  enough  for  our  sudden  disap- 


164 


THE  BEAUX'  STRATAGEM 


ACT  I,  Sc.  I. 


pearing;  and,  I  warrant  you,  our  friends 
imagine  that  we  are  gone  a-volunteering. 

Arch.  Why,  faith,  if  this  prospect  fails, 
it  must  e'en  come  to  that.  I  am  for  ventur- 
ing one  of  the  hundreds,  if  you  will,  upon 
this  knight-errantry;  but,  in  case  it  should 
fail,  we'll  reserve  t'other  to  carry  us  to  some 
counterscarp,  where  we  may  die,  as  we  lived, 
in  a  blaze. 

Aim.  With  all  my  heart;  and  we  have 
lived  justly,  Archer:  we  can't  say  that  we 
have  spent  our  fortunes,  but  that  we  have 


enjoyed    'em. 
Arch.     Right! 


So    much    pleasure    for    so 


much  money.  We  have  had  our  penny- 
worths; and,  had  I  millions,  I  would  go  to 
the  same  market  again. — O  London !  London ! 
—Well,  we  have  had  our  share,  and  let  us 
be  thankful:  past  pleasures,  for  aught  I 
know,  are  best,  such  as  we  are  sure  of; 
those  to  come  may  disappoint  us. 

Aim.  It  has  often  grieved  the  heart  of 
me  to  see  how  some  inhuman  wretches  mur- 
der their  kind  fortunes;  those  that,  by  sac- 
rificing all  to  one  appetite,  shall  starve  all 
the  rest.  You  shall  have  some  that  live 
only  in  their  palates,  and  in  their  sense  of 
tasting  shall  drown  the  other  four.  Others 
are  only  epicures  in  appearances,  such  who 
shall  starve  their  nights  to  make  a  figure 
a  days,  and  famish  their  own  to  feed  the 
eyes  of  others.  A  contrary  sort  confine  their 
pleasures  to  the  dark,  and  contract  their 
spacious  acres  to  the  circuit  of  a  muff-string. 

Arch.  Right!  But  they  find  the  Indies  in 
that  spot  where  they  consume  'em.  And  I 
think  'your  kind  keepers  have  much  the  best 
on't:  for  they  indulge  the  most  senses  by 
one  expense.  There's  the  seeing,  hearing, 
and  feeling,  amply  gratified;  and,  some  phi- 
losophers will  tell  you,  that  from  such  a 
commerce  there  arises  a  sixth  sense,  that 
gives  infinitely  more  pleasure  than  the  other 
five  put  together. 

ml;:,:.  And  to  pass  to  the  other  extremity, 
of  all  keepers  I  think  those  the  worst  that 
keep  their  money. 

Arch.  Those  are  the  most  miserable 
wights  in  being,  they  destroy  the  rights  of 
nature,  and  disappoint  the  blessings  of 
Providence.  Give  me  a  man  that  keeps  his 
five  senses  keen  and  bright  as  his  sword, 
that  has  'em  always  drawn  out  in  their  just 
order  and  strength,  with  his  reason  as  com- 
mander at  the  head  of  'em,  that  detaches  'em 
by  turns  upon  whatever  party  of  pleasure 
agreeably  offers,  and  commands  'em  to  re- 
treat upon  the  least  appearance  of  disad- 
vantage or  danger!  For  my  part,  I  can  stick 
to  my  bottle  while  my  wine,  my  company, 
and  my  reason,  hold  good;  I  can  be  charmed 
with  Sappho's  singing  without  falling  in  love 
with  her  face:  I  love  hunting,  but  would 
not,  like  Actaeon,  be  eaten  up  by  my  own 


dogs;  I  love  a  fine  house,  but  let  another 
keep  it;  and  just  so  I  love  a  fine  woman. 

Aim.  In  that  last  particular  you  have  the 
better  of  me. 

Arch.  Ay,  you're  such  an  amorous  puppy, 
that  I'm  afraid  you'll  spoil  our  sport;  you 
can't  counterfeit  the  passion  without  feeling 
it. 

Aim.  Though  the  whining  part  be  out  of 
doors  in  town,  'tis  still  in  force  with  the 
country  ladies:  and  let  me  tell  you,  Frank, 
the  fool  in  that  passion  shall  outdo  the 
knave  at  any  time. 

Arch.  Well,  I  won't  dispute  it  now;  you 
command  for  the  day,  and  so  I  submit:  at 
Nottingham,  you  know,  I  am  to  be  master. 

Aim.     And  at  Lincoln,  I  again. 

Arch.  Then,  at  Norwich  I  mount,  which, 
I  think,  shall  be  our  last  stage;  for,  if  we 
fail  there,  we'll  embark  for  Holland,  bid  adieu 
to  Venus,  and  welcome  Mars. 

Aim.     A  match!— Mum! 

Re-enter  BONIFACE. 

Bon.  What  will  your  worship  please  to 
have  for  supper? 

./•'/)/.     What   have   you    got? 

Bon.  Sir,  we  have  a  delicate  piece  of  beef 
in  the  pot,  and  a  pig  at  the  fire. 

Aim.  Good  supper-meat,  I  must  confess. 
I  can't  eat  beef,  landlord. 


Arch. 
Aim. 


And   I  hate  pig. 
Hold  your  prating,   sirrah!     Do  you 


know  who  you   are? 

Bon.  Please  to  bespeak  something  else; 
I  have  everything  in  the  house. 

Aim.     Have  you  any  veal? 

Bon.  Veal,  sir!  We  had  a  delicate  loin 
of  veal  on  Wednesday  last. 


Aim. 
Bon. 


Have  you  got  any  fish  or  wildfowl? 
As  for  fish,  truly,  sir,  we  are  an  in- 


land town,  and  indifferently  provided  with 
fish,  that's  the  truth  on't;  and  then  for  wild- 
fowl—we have  a  delicate  couple  of  rabbits. 

Aim.     Get   me    the    rabbits    fricasseed. 

Bon.  Fricasseed!  Lard,  sir,  they'll  eat 
much  better  smothered  with  onions. 

Arch.     Psha!     Damn   your   onions! 

Aim.  Again,  sirrah !— Well,  landlord,  what 
you  please.  But  hold,  I  have  a  small  charge 
of  money,  and  your  house  is  so  full  of  stran- 
gers, that  I  believe  it  may  be  safer  in  your 
custody  than  mine;  for  when  this  fellow  of 
mine  gets  drunk  he  minds  nothing.— Here, 
sirrah,  reach  me  the  strong-box. 

Arch.  Yes,  sir.— [Aside.]  This  will  give 
us  a  reputation.  [Brings  the  box.] 

Aim.  Here,  landlord;  the  locks  are  sealed 
down  both  for  your  security  and  mine;  it 
holds  somewhat  above  two  hundred  pound: 
if  you  doubt  it,  I'll  count  it  to  you  after 
supper;  but  be  sure  you  lay  it  where  I  may 
have  it  at  a  minute's  warning;  for  my  affairs 
are  a  little  dubious  at  present;  perhaps  I  may 


165 


ACT  I,  Sc.  I. 


THE  BEAUX'  STRATAGEM 


be  gone  in  half  an  hour,  perhaps  I  may  be 
your  guest  till  the  best  part  of  that  be  spent; 
and  pray  order  your  ostler  to  keep  my 
horses  always  saddled.  But  one  thing  above 
the  rest  I  must  beg,  that  you  would  let  this 
fellow  have  none  of  your  Anno  Domini,  as 
you  call  it;  for  he's  the  most  insufferable 
sot.— Here,  sirrah,  light  me  to  my  chamber. 
[Ex-it,  lighted  by  ARCHER. 
Bon.  Cherry!  daughter  Cherry! 

Re-enter   CHERRY. 

Cher.     D'ye    call,   father? 

Bon.  Ay,  child,  you  must  lay  by  this  box 
for  the  gentleman;  'tis  full  of  money. 

Cher.  Money!  all  that  money!  why,  sure, 
father,  the  gentleman  comes  to  be  chosen 
parliament-man.  Who  is  he? 

Bon.  I  don't  know  what  to  make  of  him; 
he  talks  of  keeping  his  horses  ready  saddled, 
and  of  going  perhaps  at  a  minute's  warning, 
or  of  staying  perhaps  till  the  best  part  of 
this  be  spent. 

Cher.  Ay,  ten  to  one,  father,  he's  a  high- 
wayman. 

Bon.  A  highwayman!  upon  my  life,  girl, 
you  have  hit  it,  and  this  box  is  some  new- 
purchased  booty.  Now,  could  we  find  him 
out,  the  money  were  ours. 

Cher.     He    don't   belong   to   our   gang. 

Bon.     What  horses  have  they? 

Cher.     The  master  rides  upon  a  black. 

Bon.  A  black!  ten  to  one  the  man  upon 
the  black  mare;  and  since  he  don't  belong 
to  our  fraternity,  we  may  betray  him  with  a 
safe  conscience;  I  don't  think  it  lawful  to 
harbor  any  rogues  but  my  own.  Look'ee, 
child,  as  the  saying  is,  we  must  go  cunningly 
to  work,  proofs  we  must  have;  the  gentle- 
man's servant  loves  drink,  I'll  ply  him  that 
way,  and  ten  to  one  loves  a  wench:  you  must 
work  him  t'other  way. 

Cher.  Father,  would  you  have  me  give 
my  secret  for  his? 

Bon.  Consider,  child,  there's  two  hundred 
pound  to  boot. — [Ringing  without.}  Coming! 
coming! — Child,  mind  your  business.  [Exit. 

Cher.  What  a  rogue  is  my  father!  My 
father!  I  deny  it.  My  mother  was  a  good, 
generous,  free-hearted  woman,  and  I  can't 
tell  how  far  her  good  nature  might  have  ex- 
tended for  the  good  of  her  children.  This 
landlord  of  mine,  for  I  think  I  can  call  him 
no  more,  would  betray  his  guest,  and  de- 
bauch his  daughter  into  the  bargain— by  a 
footman  too ! 

Re-enter  ARCHER. 

Arch.  What  footman,  pray,  mistress,  is 
so  happy  as  to  be  the  subject  of  your  con- 
templation ? 

Cher.  Whoever  he  is,  friend,  he'll  be  but 
little  the  better  for't. 


Arch.  I  hope  so,  for,  I'm  sure,  you  did 
not  think  of  me. 

Cher.     Suppose    I   had? 

Arch.  Why,  then,  you're  but  even  with 
me;  for  the  minute  I  came  in,  I  was  a-con- 
sidering  in  what  manner  I  should  make  love 
to  you. 

Cher.     Love  to  me,  friend! 
Arch.     Yes,    child. 

Cher.  Child!  manners!— If  you  kept  a  little 
more  distance,  friend,  it  would  become  you 
much  better. 

Arch.     Distance!   good-night,    sauce-box. 

[Going. 

Cher.  [Aside.]  A  pretty  fellow!  I  like  his 
pride. — [Aloud.}  Sir,  pray,  sir,  you  see,  sir 
[ARCHER  returns],  I  have  the  credit  to  be 
entrusted  with  your  master's  fortune  here, 
which  sets  me  a  degree  above  his  footman; 
I  hope,  sir,  you  an't  affronted  ? 

Arch.  Let  me  look  you  full  in  the  face, 
and  I'll  tell  you  whether  you  can  affront  me 
or  no.  'Sdeath,  child,  you  have  a  pair  of 
delicate  eyes,  and  you  don't  know  what  to 
do  with  'em! 

Cher.     Why,  sir,  don't  I  see  everybody? 
Arch.     Ay,    but    if    some    women    had    'em, 
they  would  kill  everybody.     Prithee,  instruct 
me,    I    would    fain   make   love   to    you,    but   I 
don't  know  what  to  say. 

Cher.  Why,  did  you  never  make  love  to 
anybody  before  ? 

Arch.  Never  to  a  person  of  your  figure, 
I  can  assure  you,  madam.  My  addresses  have 
been  always  confined  to  people  within  my 
own  sphere;  I  never  aspired  so  high  before. 

[Sings. 

But  you  look  so  bright, 
And  are  dressed  so  tight, 
That  a  man  would  swear  you're  right, 
As  arm   was  e'er  laid  over. 
Such   an   air 
You  freely  wear 
To  ensnare, 

As   makes    each   guest    a   lover! 
Since  then,  my  dear,  I'm  your  guest, 
Prithee   give  me  of  the   best 
Of  what  is  ready   drest: 
Since    then,    my    dear,   etc. 


What    can    I    think    of    this 
Will  you  give  me  that  song, 


Cher.    [Aside.} 
man?— [Aloud.} 
sir? 

Arch.  Ay,  my  dear,  take  it  while  'tis 
warm. — [Kisses  her.}  Death  and  fire!  her  lips 
are  honeycombs. 

Cher.  And  I  wish  there  had  been  bees  too, 
to  have  stung  you  for  your  impudence. 

Arch.  There's  a  swarm  of  Cupids,  my 
little  Venus,  that  has  done  the  business 
much  better. 

Cher.  [Aside.}  This  fellow  is  misbegotten 
as  well  as  I.— [Aloud.}  What's  your  name, 
sir? 


166 


THE  BEAUX'  STRATAGEM 


ACT  II,  Sc.  I. 


Arch.  [Aside.]  Name!  egad,  I  have  forgot 
it.— [Aloud.]  Oh!  Martin. 

Cher.     Where    were   you   born? 

Arch.     In  St.  Martin's  parish. 

Cher.     What  was  your  father?  • 

Arch.     St.  Martin's  parish. 

Cher.     Then,  friend,  good-night. 

Arch.     I   hope   not. 

Cher.     You  may  depend  upon't. 

Arch.     Upon  what? 

Cher.     That  you're  very  impudent. 

Arch.     That  you're  very  handsome. 

Cher.     That  you're  a  footman. 

Arch.     That  you're  an   angel. 

Cher.     I  shall  be  rude. 

Arch.     So  shall  I. 

Cher.     Let  go  my  hand. 

Arch.     Give  me  a  kiss.  [Kisses  her. 

Bon.     [Without.']     Cherry !  Cherry ! 

Cher.  I'm— my  father  calls;  you  plaguy 
devil,  how  durst  you  stop  my  breath  so? 
Offer  to  follow  me  one  step,  if  you  dare. 

[Exit. 

Arch.  A  fair  challenge,  by  this  light! 
This  is  a  pretty  fair  opening  of  an  adven- 
ture; but  we  are  knight-errants,  and  so 
Fortune  be  our  guide.  [Exit. 


ACT   II 

SCENE  I 

A  Gallery  in  LADY  BOUNTIFUL'S  House. 
Enter    MRS.    SULLEN    and    DORINDA,    meeting. 

Dor.     Morrow,  my  dear  sister;  are  you  for 
church  this   morning? 

Mrs.  Sul.     Anywhere  to  pray;  for  Heaven 


alone   can    help   me. 
there's    no    form    of 


But  I  think,  Dorinda, 
prayer  in  the  liturgy 
against  bad  husbands. 

Dor.  But  there's  a  form  of  law  in  Doctors- 
Commons;  and  I  swear,  sister  Sullen,  rather 
than  see  you  thus  continually  discontented, 
I  would  advise  you  to  apply  to  that:  for 
besides  the  part  that  I  bear  in  your  vexatious 
broils,  as  being  sister  to  the  husband,  and 
friend  to  the  wife,  your  example  gives  me 
such  an  impression  of  matrimony,  that  I 
shall  be  apt  to  condemn  my  person  to  a 
long  vacation  all  its  life.  But  supposing, 
madam,  that  you  brought  it  to  a  case  of 
separation,  what  can  you  urge  against  your 
husband?  My  brother  is,  first,  the  most 
constant  man  alive. 

Mrs.  Sul.  The  most  constant  husband,  I 
grant  ye. 

Dor.     He  never  sleeps  from  you. 

Mrs.   Sul.     No,   he  always   sleeps  with   me. 

Dor.  He  allows  you  a  maintenance  suit- 
able to  your  quality. 

Mrs.  Sul.  A  maintenance!  do  you  take 
me,  madam,  for  an  hospital  child,  that  I 
must  sit  down,  and  bless  my  benefactors  for 


meat,  drink,  and  clothes?  As  I  take  it, 
madam,  I  brought  your  brother  ten  thou- 
sand pounds,  out  of  which  I  might  expect 
some  pretty  things,  called  pleasures. 

Dor.  You  share  in  all  the  pleasures  that 
the  country  affords. 

Mrs.  Sul.  Country  pleasures!  racks  and 
torments!  Dost  think,  child,  that  my  limbs 
were  made  for  leaping  of  ditches,  and  clamber- 
ing over  stiles?  or  that  my  parents,  wisely 
foreseeing  my  future  happiness  in  country 
pleasures,  had  early  instructed  me  in  rural 
accomplishments  of  drinking  fat  ale,  playing 
at  whisk,  and  smoking  tobacco  with  my 
husband?  or  of  spreading  of  plasters,  brew- 
ing of  diet-drinks,  and  stilling  rosemary- 
water,  with  the  good  old  gentlewoman  my 
mother-in-law  ? 

Dor.  I'm  sorry,  madam,  that  it  is  not 
more  in  our  power  to  divert  you;  I  could 
wish,  indeed,  that  our  entertainments  were 
a  little  more  polite,  or  your  taste  a  little 
less  refined.  But,  pray,  madam,  how  came 
the  poets  and  philosophers,  that  labored  so 
much  in  hunting  after  pleasure,  to  place  it 
at  last  in  a  country  life? 

Mrs.  Sul.  Because  they  wanted  money, 
child,  to  find  out  the  pleasures  of  the  town. 
Did  you  ever  see  a  poet  or  philosopher  worth 
ten  thousand  pound?  if  you  can  show  me 
such  a  man,  I'll  lay  you  fifty  pound  you'll 
find  him  somewhere  within  the  weekly  bills. 
Not  that  I  disapprove  rural  pleasures,  as 
the  poets  have  painted  them;  in  their  land- 
scape, every  Phillis  has  her  Corydon,  every 
murmuring  stream  and  every  flowery  mead 
gives  fresh  alarms  to  love.  Besides,  you'll 
find,  that  their  couples  were  never  married. 
But  yonder  I  see  my  Corydon,  and  a  sweet 
swain  it  is,  Heaven  knows!  Come,  Dorinda, 
don't  be  angry,  he's  my  husband,  and  your 
brother;  and,  between  both,  is  he  not  a  sad 
brute  ? 

Dor.  I  have  nothing  to  say  to  your  part 
of  him,  you're  the  best  judge. 

Mrs.  Sul.  O  sister,  sister!  if  ever  you 
marry,  beware  of  a  sullen,  silent  sot,  one 
that's  always  musing,  but  never  thinks. 
There's  some  diversion  in  a  talking  block- 
head; and  since  a  woman  must  wear  chains, 
I  would  have  the  pleasure  of  hearing  'em 
rattle  a  little.  Now  you  shall  see,  but  take 
this  by  the  way.  He  came  home  this  morn- 
ing at  his  usual  hour  of  four,  wakened  me 
out  of  a  sweet  dream  of  something  else,  by 
tumbling  over  the  tea-table,  which  he  broke 
all  to  pieces;  after  his  man  and  he  had  rolled 
about  the  room,  like  sick  passengers  in  a 
storm,  he  comes  flounce  into  bed,  dead  as  a 
salmon  into  a  fishmonger's  basket;  his  feet 
cold  as  ice,  his  breath  hot  as  a  furnace,  and 
bis  hands  and  his  face  as  greasy  as  his  flan- 
nel night-cap.  O  matrimony!  He  tosses  up 
the  clothes  with  a  barbarous  swing  over  his 


167 


ACT  II,  Sc.  I. 


THE  BEAUX'  STRATAGEM 


shoulders,  disorders  the  whole  economy  of 
my  bed,  leaves  me  half  naked,  and  my  whole 
night's  comfort  is  the  tuneable  serenade  of 
that  wakeful  nightingale,  his  nose!  Oh,  the 
pleasure  of  counting  the  melancholy  clock 
by  a  snoring  husband!  But  now,  sister,  you 
shall  see  how  handsomely,  being  a  well-bred 
man,  he  will  beg  my  pardon. 

Enter  SULLEN. 

Squire    Sul.     My    head    aches    consumedly. 

Mrs.  Sul.  Will  you  be  pleased,  my  dear, 
to  drink  tea  with  us  this  morning?  It  may 
do  your  head  good. 

Squire   Sul.     No. 

Dor.     Coffee,    brother? 

Squire    Sul.     Psha! 

Mrs.  Sul.  Will  you  please  to  dress,  and 
to  church  with  me?  The  air  may  help 

[Calls. 


go   to    ch 
you. 

Squire    Sul.     Scrub ! 


Enter  SCRUB. 

Scrub.     Sir! 

Squire  Sul.     What  day  o*  th'  week  is  this? 

Scrub.     Sunday,   an't   please  your  worship. 

Squire  Sul.  Sunday!  Bring  me  a  dram; 
and  d'ye  hear,  set  out  the  venison-pasty, 
and  a  tankard  of  strong  beer  upon  the  hall- 
table;  I'll  go  to  breakfast.  [Going. 

Dor.  Stay,  stay,  brother,  you  shan't  get 
off  so;  you  were  very  naught  last  night,  and 
must  make  your  wife  reparation;  come,  come, 
brother,  won't  you  ask  pardon? 

Squire  Sul.     For  what? 

Dor.     For  being  drunk  last  night. 

Squire  Sul.     I  can  afford  it,  can't  I? 

Mrs.  Sul.     But  I  can't,  sir. 

Squire   Sul.     Then   you   may   let   it   alone. 

Mrs.  Sul.  But  I  must  tell  you,  sir,  that 
this  is  not  to  be  borne. 

Squire  Sul.     I'm  glad  on't. 

Mrs.  Sul.  What  is  the  reason,  sir,  that 
you  use  me  thus  inhumanly  ? 

Squire   Sul.     Scrub! 

^Scrub.     Sir! 

Squire  Sul.  Get  things  ready  to  shave  my 
head.  [Exit. 

Mrs.  Sul.  Have  a  care  of  coming  near  his 
temples,  Scrub,  for  fear  you  meet  something 
there  that  may  turn  the  edge  of  your  razor. 
—[Exit  SCRUB.]  Inveterate  stupidity!  Did 
you  ever  know  so  hard,  so  obstinate  a  spleen 
as  his?  O  sister,  sister!  I  shall  never  ha* 
good  of  the  beast  till  I  get  him  to  town; 
London,  dear  London,  is  the  place  for  man- 
aging and  breaking  a  husband. 

Dor.  And  has  not  a  husband  the  same 
opportunities  there  for  humbling  a  wife? 

Mrs.  Sul.  No,  no,  child,  'tis  a  standing 
maxim  in  conjugal  discipline,  that  when  a 
man  would  enslave  his  wife,  he  hurries  her 


into  the  country;  and  when  a  lady  would  be 
arbitrary  with  her  husband,  she  wheedles 
her  booby  up  to  town.  A  man  dare  not  play 
the  tyrant  in  London,  because  there  are  so 
many  examples  to  encourage  the  subject  to 
rebel.  O  Dorinda!  Dorinda!  a  fine  woman 
may  do  anything  in  London:  o'  my  con- 
science, she  may  raise  an  army  of  forty 
thousand  men. 

Dor.  I  fancy,  sister,  you  have  a  mind  to 
be  trying  your  power  that  way  here  in  Lich- 
field;  you  have  drawn  the  French  Count  to 
your  colors  already. 

Mrs.  Sul.  The  French  are  a  people  that 
can't  live  without  their  gallantries. 

Dor.  And  some  English  that  I  know,  sis- 
ter, are  not  averse  to  such  amusements. 

Mrs.  Sul.  Well,  sister,  since  the  truth 
must  out,  it  may  do  as  well  now  as  here- 
after; I  think,  one  way  to  rouse  my  lethargic, 
sottish  husband,  is  to  give  him  a  rival. 
Security  begets  negligence  in  all  people,  and 
men  must  be  alarmed  to  make  'em  alert  in 
their  duty.  Women  are  like  pictures,  of  no 
value  in  the  hands  of  a  fool,  till  he  hears  men 
of  sense  bid  high  for  the  purchase. 

Dor.  This  might  do,  sister,  if  my  brother's 
understanding  were  to  be  convinced  into  a 
passion  for  you;  but,  I  fancy,  there's  a  nat- 
ural aversion  on  his  side;  and  I  fancy,  .sister, 
that  you  don't  come  much  behind  him,  if  you 
dealt  fairly. 

Mrs.  Sul.  I  own  it,  we  are  united  contra- 
dictions, fire  and  water:  but  I  could  be  con- 
tented, with  a  great  many  other  wives,  to 
humor  the  censorious  mob,  and  give  the 
world  an  appearance  of  living  well  with  my 
husband,  could  I  bring  him  but  to  dissemble 
a  little  kindness  to  keep  me  in  countenance. 

Dor.  But  how  do  you  know,  sister,  but 
that,  instead  of  rousing  your  husband  by  this 
artifice  to  a  counterfeit  kindness,  he  should 
awake  in  a  real  fury? 

Mrs.  Sul.  Let  him:  if  I  can't  entice  him  to 
the  one,  I  would  provoke  him  to  the  other. 

Dor.  But  how  must  I  behave  myself  be- 
tween ye? 

Mrs.    Sul.     You   must   assist  me. 

Dor.     What,  against  my  own  brother? 

Mrs.  Sul.  He's  but  half  a  brother,  and  I'm 
your  entire  friend.  If  I  go  a  step  beyond  the 
bounds  of  honor,  leave  me;  till  then,  I  ex- 
pect you  should  go  along  with  me  in  every- 
thing; while  I  trust  my  honor  in  your  hands, 
you  may  trust  your  brother's  in  mine.  The 
count  is  to  dine  here  to-day. 

Dor.  'Tis  a  strange  thing,  sister,  that  I 
can't  like  that  man. 

Mrs.  Sul.  You  like  nothing;  your  time  i* 
not  come;  love  and  death  have  their  fatali- 
ties, and  strike  home  one  time  or  other. 
You'll  pay  for  all  one  day,  I  warrant  ye. 
But  come,  my  lady's  tea  is  ready,  and  'tis 
almost  church  time.  [Exeunt. 


168 


THE  BEAUX'  STRATAGEM 


ACT  II,  Sc.  II. 


SCENE  II 

A  Room  in  BONIFACE'S  Inn. 
Enter  AIMWELL  dressed,  and  ARCHER. 

Aim.  And  was  she  the  daughter  of  the 
house  ? 

Arch.  The  landlord  is  so  blind  as  to  think 
so;  but  I  dare  swear  she  has  better  blood  in 
her  veins. 

Aim.     Why  dost   thou   think   so? 

Arch.  Because  the  baggage  has  a  pert 
jc  ne  sais  quoi;  she  reads  plays,  keeps  a 
monkey,  and  is  troubled  with  vapors. 

Aim.  By  which  discoveries  I  guess  that 
you  know  more  of  her. 

Arch.  Not  yet,  faith;  the  lady  gives  her- 
self airs;  forsooth,  nothing  under  a  gentle- 
man! 

Aim.     Let  me  take  her  in  hand. 

Arch.  Say  one  word  more  o'  that,  and  I'll 
declare  myself,  spoil  your  sport  there,  and 
everywhere  else;  look  ye,  Aim  well,  every 
man  in  his  own  sphere. 

Aim.  Right;  and  therefore  you  must  pimp 
for  your  master. 

Arch.  In  the  usual  forms,  good  sir,  after 
I  have  served  myself. — But  to  our  business. 
You  are  so  well  dressed,  Tom,  and  make  so 
handsome  a  figure,  that  I  fancy  you  may  do 
execution  in  a  country  church;  the  exterior 
part  strikes  first,  and  you're  in  the  right  to 
make  that  impression  favorable. 

Aim.  There's  something  in  that  which 
may  turn  to  advantage.  The  appearance  of  a 
stranger  in  a  country  church  draws  as  many 
gazers  as  a  blazing-star;  no  sooner  he  comes 
into  the  cathedral,  but  a  train  of  whispers 
runs  buzzing  round  the  congregation  in  a 
moment:  Who  is  he?  Whence  comes  he?  Do 
you  know  him?  Then  I,  sir,  tips  me  the 
verger  with  half-a-crown;  he  pockets  the 
simony,  and  inducts  me  into  the  best  pew 
in  the  church.  I  pull  out  my  snuff-box,  turn 
myself  round,  bow  to  the  bishop,  or  the  dean, 
if  he  be  the  commanding-officer;  single  out 
a  beauty,  rivet  both  my  eyes  to  hers,  set  my 
nose  a-bleeding  by  the  strength  of  imagina- 
tion, and  show  the  whole  church  my  concern, 
by  my  endeavoring  to  hide  it.  After  the 
sermon,  the  whole  town  gives  me  to  her  for 
a  lover,  and  by  persuading  the  lady  that  I 
am  a-dying  for  her,  the  tables  are  turned, 
and  she  in  good  earnest  falls  in  love  with 
me. 

Arch.  There's  nothing  in  this,  Tom,  with- 
out a  precedent;  but  instead  of  riveting  your 
eyes  to  a  beauty,  try  to  fix  'em  upon  a  for- 
tune; that's  our  business  at  present. 

Aim.  Psha!  no  woman  can  be  a  beauty 
without  a  fortune.  Let  me  alone,  for  I  am  a 
marksman. 

Arch.     Tom! 

Aim.     Ay. 


Arch.  When  were  you  at  church  before, 
pray? 

Aim.     Um — I  was  there  at  the  coronation. 

Arch.  And  how  can  you  expect  a  blessing 
by  going  to  church  now? 

Aim.  Blessing!  nay,  Frank,  I  ask  but  for 
a  wife.  [Exit. 

Arch.  Truly,  the  man  is  not  very  unrea- 
sonable in  his  demands. 

[Exit  at  the   opposite  door. 

Enter  BONIFACE  and  CHERRY. 

Bon.  Well,  daughter,  as  the  saying  is, 
have  you  brought  Martin  to  confess? 

Cher.  Pray,  father,  don't  put  me  upon 
getting  anything  out  of  a  man;  I'm  but 
young,  you  know,  father,  and  I  don't  under- 
stand wheedling. 

Bon.  Young!  why,  you  jade,  as  the  saying 
is,  can  any  woman  wheedle  that  is  not  young? 
Your  mother  was  useless  at  five-and-twenty. 
Not  wheedle!  would  you  make  your  mother 
a  whore,  and  me  a  cuckold,  as  the  saying  is? 
I  tell  you,  his  silence  confesses  it,  and  his 
master  spends  his  money  so  freely,  and  is  so 
much  a  gentleman  every  manner  of  way, 
that  he  must  be  a  highwayman. 

Enter  GIBBET,  in  a  cloak. 

Gib.  Landlord,  landlord,  is  the  coast 
clear? 

Bon.     O  Mr.  Gibbet,  what's  the  news? 

Gib.  No  matter,  ask  no  questions,  all  fair 
and  honorable.— Here,  my  dear  Cherry.— 
[Gives  her  a  bag.]  Two  hundred  sterling 
pounds,  as  good  as  any  that  ever  hanged 
or  saved  a  rogue;  lay  'em  by  with  the  rest; 
and  here — three  wedding  or  mourning  rings, 
'tis  much  the  same  you  know — here,  two  sil- 
ver-hilt ed  swords;  I  took  those  from  fel- 
lows that  never  show  any  part  of  their 
swords  but  the  hilts — here  is  a  diamond 
necklace  which  the  lady  hid  in  the  privatest 
place  in  the  coach,  but  I  found  it  out — this 
gold  watch  I  took  from  a  pawnbroker's  wife; 
it  was  left  in  her  hands  by  a  person  of 
quality:  there's  the  arms  upon  the  case. 

Cher.     But  who  had  you  the  money  from  ? 

Gib.  Ah!  poor  woman!  I  pitied  her; — 
from  a  poor  lady  just  eloped  from  her  hus- 
band. She  had  made  up  her  cargo,  and  was 
bound  for  Ireland,  as  hard  as  she  could 
drive;  she  told  me  of  her  husband's  barbarous 
usage,  and  so  I  left  her  half-a-crown.  But 
I  had  almost  forgot,  my  dear  Cherry,  I  have 
a  present  for  you. 

Cher.     What  is't? 

Gib.  A  pot  of  ceruse,  my  child,  that  I 
took  out  of  a  lady's  under-pocket. 

Cher.  What,  Mr.  Gibbet,  do  you  think 
that  I  paint? 

Gib.  Why,  you  jade,  your  betters  do;  I'm 
sure  the  lady  that  I  took  it  from  had  a 


169 


ACT  II,  So.  II. 


THE  BEAUX'  STRATAGEM 


coronet  upon  her  handkerchief.  Here,  take 
my  cloak,  and  go,  secure  the  premises. 

Cher.     1    will    secure    'em.  [Exit. 

Bon.  But,  hark'ee,  where's  Hounslow  and 
Bagshot ? 

Gil>.     They'll    be   here    to-night. 

Bon.  D'ye  know  of  any  other  gentlemen 
o'  the  pad  on  this  road? 

Gib.     No. 

Bon.  I  fancy  that  I  have  two  that  lodge 
in  the  house  just  now. 

Gib.     The  devil!  how  d'ye  smoke  'em? 

Bon.     Why,  the  one  is  gone  to  church. 

(.•';".'•.     That's  suspicious,  I  must  confess. 

Bon.  And  the  other  is  now  in  his  master's 
chamber;  he  pretends  to  be  servant  to  the 
other.  We'll  call  him  out  and  pump  him  a 
little. 

Gib.     With  all  my  heart. 

Bon.     Mr.   Martin!  Mr.  Martin!          [Calls. 

Enter  ARCHER,  combing  a  periwig  and  singing. 

Gib.  The  roads  are  consumed  deep,  I'm  as 
dirty  as  Old  Brentford  at  Christmas. — A  good 
pretty  fellow  that.  Whose  servant  are  you, 
friend  ? 

Arch.     My   master's. 

Gib.     Really! 

Arch.     Really. 

Gib.  That's  much.— The  fellow  has  been 
at  the  bar  by  his  evasions. — But,  pray,  sir, 
what  is  your  master's  name? 

Arch.  Tall,  all,  dall! — [Sings  and  combs 
the  periwig.]  This  is  the  most  obstinate 
curl 

Gib.     I  ask  you  his  name? 

Arch.  Name,  sir — tall,  all,  dall! — I  never 
asked  him  his  name  in  my  life. — Tall,  all, 
dall! 

Bon.     What  think  you  now? 

[Aside  to  GIBBET. 

Gib.  [Aside  to  BONIFACE.]  Plain,  plain,  he 
talks  now  as  if  he  were  before  a  judge. — [To 
ARCHER.]  But  pray,  friend,  which  way  does 
your  master  travel  ? 

Arch.     A-horseback. 

Gib.  [Aside.]  Very  well,  again,  an  old 
offender,  right. — [To  ARCHER.]  But,  I  mean, 
does  he  go  upwards  or  downwards? 

Arch.     Downwards,  I  fear,  sir. — Tall,  all! 

Gib.  I'm  afraid  my  fate  will  be  a  con- 
trary way. 

Bon.  Ha!  ha!  ha!  Mr.  Martin,  you're  very 
arch.  This  gentleman  is  only  travelling 
towards  Chester,  and  would  be  glad  of  your 
company,  that's  ail. — Come,  captain,  you'll 
stay  to-night,  I  suppose?  I'll  show  you  a 
chamber — come,  captain. 

Gib.     Farewell,    friend! 

Arch.  Captain,  your  servant.— [Exeunt 
BONIFACE  and  GIBBET.]  Captain!  a  pretty 
fellow!  'Sdeath,  I  wonder  that  the  officers  of 
the  army  don't  conspire  to  beat  all  scoundrels 
in  red  but  their  own. 


Re-enter  CHERRY. 

Cher.  [Aside.]  Gone,  and  Martin  here!  I 
hope  he  did  not  listen;  I  would  have  the 
merit  of  the  discovery  all  my  own,  because 
I  would  oblige  him  to  love  me. — [Aloud.]  Mr. 
Martin,  who  was  that  man  with  my  father? 

Arch.  Some  recruiting  serjeant,  or 
whipped-out  trooper,  I  suppose. 

Cher.     All's    safe,    I    find.  [Aside. 

Arch.  Come,  my  dear,  have  you  conned 
over  the  catechise  I  taught  you  last  night? 

Cher.     Come,   question  me. 

Arch.     What  is  love? 

('/.•(•>•.  Love  is  I  know  not  what,  it  comes 
I  know  not  how,  and  goes  I  know  not  when. 

Arch.  Very  well,  an  apt  scholar.— [Chucks 
her  under  the  chin.]  Where  does  love  enter? 

Cher.     Into  the  eyes. 

Arch.     And  where  go  out? 

Cher.     I  won't  tell  ye. 

Arch.     What  are  the  objects  of  that  passion  ? 

Cher.     Youth,  beauty,  and  clean  linen. 

Arch.     The  reason? 

Cher.  The  two  first  are  fashionable  in 
nature,  and  the  third  at  court. 

Arch.  That's  my  dear.— What  are  the 
signs  and  tokens  of  that  passion? 

Cher.  A  stealing  look,  a  stammering 
tongue,  words  improbable,  designs  impossible, 
and  actions  impracticable. 

Arch.  That's  my  good  child,  kiss  me. — 
What  must  a  lover  do  to  obtain  his  mistress? 

Cher.  He  must  adore  the  person  that  dis- 
dains him,  he  must  bribe  the  chambermaid 
that  betrays  him,  and  court 'the  footman  that 
laughs  at  him.  He  must— he  must 

Arch.  Nay,  child,  I  must  whip  you  if  you 
don't  mind  your  lesson;  he  must  treat  his 

Cher.  Oh  ay ! — he  must  treat  his  enemies 
with  respect,  his  friends  with  indifference, 
and  all  the  world  with  contempt;  he  must 
suffer  much,  and  fear  more;  he  must  desire 
much,  and  hope  little;  in  short,  he  must  em- 
brace his  ruin,  and  throw  himself  away. 

Arch.  Had  ever  man  so  hopeful  a  pupil  as 
mine! — Come,  my  dear,  why  is  love  called  a 
riddle? 

Cher.  Because,  being  blind,  he  leads  those 
that  see,  and,  though  a  child,  he  governs  a 
man. 

Arch.  Mighty  well! — And  why  is  Love 
pictured  blind? 

Cher.  Because  the  painters  out  of  the 
weakness  or  privilege  of  their  art  chose  to 
hide  those  eyes  that  they  could  not  draw. 

Arch.  That's  my  dear  little  scholar,  kiss 
me  again. — And  why  should  Love,  that's  a 
child,  govern  a  man? 

Cher.  Because  that  a  child  is  the  end  of 
love. 

Arch.  And  so  ends  Love's  catechism. — 
And  now,  my  dear,  we'll  go  in  and  make  my 
master's  bed. 


170 


THE  BEAUX'  STRATAGEM 


ACT  III,  Sc.  I. 


Cher.  Hold,  hold,  Mr.  Martin!  You  have 
taken  a  great  deal  of  pains  to  instruct  me, 
and  what  d'ye  think  I  have  learned  by  it? 

Arch.     What? 

Cher.  That  your  discourse  and  your  habit 
are  contradictions,  and  it  would  be  nonsense 
in  me  to  believe  you  a  footman  any  longer. 

Arch.     'Oons,  what  a  witch  it  is! 

Cher.  Depend  upon  this,  sir,  nothing-  in 
this  garb  shall  ever  tempt  me;  for,  though  I 
was  born  to  servitude,  I  hate  it.  Own  your 
condition,  swear  you  love  me,  and  then 

Arch.     And  then  we  shall  go  make  the  bed? 

Cher.     Yes. 

Arch.  You  must  know,  then,  that  I  am 
born  a  gentleman,  my  education  was  liberal; 
but  1  went  to  London  a  younger  brother,  fell 
into  the  hands  of  sharpers,  who  stripped  me 
of  my  money,  my  friends  disowned  me,  and 
now  my  necessity  brings  me  to  what  you  see. 

Cher.  Then  take  my  hand — promise  to 
marry  me  before  you  sleep,  and  I'll  make  you 
master  of  two  thousand  pounds. 

Arch.     How! 

Cher.  Two  thousand  pounds  that  I  have 
this  minute  in  my  own  custody;  so,  throw 
off  your  livery  this  instant,  and  I'll  go  find  a 
parson. 

Arch.     What  said  you?  a  parson! 

Cher.     What!  do  you   scruple? 

Arch.  Scruple!  no,  no,  but — Two  thousand 
pounds,  you  say  ? 

Cher.     And  better. 

Arch.  [Aside.'}  'Sdeath,  what  shall  I  do?— 
[Aloud. 1  But  hark'ee,  child,  what  need  you 
make  me  master  of  yourself  and  money, 
when  you  may  have  the  same  pleasure  out 
of  me,  and  still  keep  your  fortune  in  your 
hands  ? 

Cher.     Then  you  won't  marry   me? 

Arch.     I  would  marry  you,  but 

Cher.  O  sweet  sir,  I'm  your  humble  ser- 
vant, you're  fairly  caught!  Would  you 
persuade  me  that  any  gentleman  who  could 
bear  the  scandal  of  wearing  a  livery  would 
refuse  two  thousand  pounds,  let  the  condition 
be  what  it  would?  no,  no,  sir.  But  I  hope 
you'll  pardon  the  freedom  I  have  taken,  since 
it  was  only  to  inform  myself  of  the  respect 
that  I  ought  to  pay  you.  [Going. 

Arch.  [Aside.]  Fairly  bit,  by  Jupiter! — 
[Aloud.]  Hold!  hold! — And  have  you  actually 
two  thousand  pounds  ? 

Cher.  Sir,  I  have  my  secrets  as  well  as 
you;  when  you  please  to  be  more  open  I  shall 
be  more  free,  and  be  assured  that  I  have  dis- 
coveries that  will  match  yours,  be  what  they 
will.  In  the  meanwhile,  be  satisfied  that  no 
discovery  I  make  shall  ever  hurt  you;  but 
beware  of  my  father!  [Exit. 

Arch.  So!  we're  like  to  have  as  many 
adventures  in  our  inn  as  Don  Quixote  had  in 
his.  Let  me  see — two  thousand  pounds!  If 
the  wench  would  promise  to  die  when  the 


money  were  spent,  egad,  one  would  marry 
her;  but  the  fortune  may  go  off  in  a  year  or 
two,  and  the  wife  may  live — Lord  knows  how 
long.  Then  an  innkeeper's  daughter!  ay, 
that's  the  devil — there  my  pride  brings  me 
off. 

For  whatsoe'er  the  sages   charge  on  pride, 
The  angels'  fall,  and  twenty  faults  beside, 
On  earth,   I'm  sure,  'mong  us  of  mortal  call- 
ing, 

Pride  saves  man   oft,   and  woman    too,  from 
falling.  [Exit. 


ACT  III 

SCENE  I 

The  Gallery  in   LADY   BOUNTIFUL'S  House. 
Enter  MRS.    SULLEN   and  DORINDA. 

Mrs.  Siil.  Ha!  ha!  ha!  my  dear  sister,  let 
me  embrace  thee!  Now  we  are  friends  indeed; 
for  I  shall  have  a  secret  of  yours  as  a  pledge 
for  mine — now  you'll  be  good  for  something, 
I  shall  have  you  conversable  in  the  subjects 
of  the  sex. 

Dor.  But  do  you  think  that  I  am  so  weak 
as  to  fall  in  love  with  a  fellow  at  first  sight? 

Mrs.  Sul.  Psha!  now  you  spoil  all;  why 
should  not  we  be  as  free  in  our  friendships 
as  the  men?  I  warrant  you,  the  gentleman 
has  got  to  his  confidant  already,  has  avowed 
his  passion,  toasted  your  health,  called  you 
ten  thousand  angels,  has  run  over  your  lips, 
eyes,  neck,  shape,  air,  and  everything,  in  a 
description  that  warms  their  mirth  to  a 
second  enjoyment. 

Dor.     Your  hand,  sister,  I  an't  well. 

Mrs.  Sul.  So — she's  breeding  already — 
come,  child,  up  with  it — hem  a  little — so — 
now  tell  me,  don't  you  like  the  gentleman 
that  we  saw  at  church  just  now? 

Dor.     The  man's  well  enough. 

Mrs.  Sul.  Well  enough!  is  he  not  a  demi- 
god, a  Narcissus,  a  star,  the  man  i'  the 
moon? 

Dor.     O  sister,  I'm  extremely  ill! 

Mrs.  Sul.  Shall  I  send  to  your  mother, 
child,  for  a  little  of  her  cephalic  plaster  to 
put  to  the  soles  of  your  feet,  or  shall  I  send 
to  the  gentleman  for  something  for  you? 
Come,  unlace  your  stays,  unbosom  yourself. 
The  man  is  perfectly  a  pretty  fellow;  I  saw 
him  when  he  first  came  into  church. 

Dor.  I  saw  him  too,  sister,  and  with  an 
air  that  shone,  methought,  like  rays  about 
his  person. 

Mrs.  Sul.     Well  said,  up  with  it! 

Dor.  No  forward  coquette  behavior,  no 
airs  to  set  him  off,  no  studied  looks  nor  art- 
ful posture — but  nature  did  it  all 

Mrs.  Sul.  Better  and  better!— one  touch 
more — come ! 


171 


ACT  III,  Sc.  II. 


THE  BEAUX'  STRATAGEM 


Dor.  But  then  his  looks — did  you  observe 
his  eyes? 

Mrs.  Snl.  Yes,  yes,  I  did.— His  eyes,  well, 
what  of  his  eyes? 

/'.•>•.  Sprightly,  but  not  wandering;  they 
seemed  to  view,  but  never  gazed  on  anything 
but  me. — And  then  his  looks  so  humble  were, 
and  yet  so  noble,  that  they  aimed  to  tell  me 
that  he  could  with  pride  die  at  my  feet, 
though  he  scorned  slavery  anywhere  else. 

Mrs.  Sul.  The  physic  works  purely! — How 
d'ye  find  yourself  now,  my  dear? 

Dor.  Hem !  much  better,  my  dear. — Oh, 
here  comes  our  Mercury ! 

Enter  SCRUB. 

Well,    Scrub,   what   news   of    the   gentleman? 

Scrub.  Madam,  I  have  brought  you  a 
packet  of  news. 

Dor.     Open  it  quickly,   come. 

Scrub.  In  the  first  place  I  inquired  who 
the  gentleman  was;  they  told  me  he  was  a 
stranger.  Secondly,  I  asked  what  the  gentle- 
man was;  they  answered  and  said,  that  they 
never  saw  him  before.  Thirdly,  I  inquired 
what  countryman  he  was;  they  replied,  'twas 
more  than  they  knew.  Fourthly,  I  demanded 
whence  he  came;  their  answer  was,  they 
could  not  tell.  And,  fifthly,  I  asked  whither 
he  went;  and  they  replied,  they  knew  nothing 
of  the  matter,— and  this  is  all  I  could  learn. 

Mrs.  Sul.  But  what  do  the  people  say? 
can't  they  guess  ? 

Scrub.  Why,  some  think  he's  a  spy, 
some  guess  he's  a  mountebank,  some  say  one 
thing,  some  another:  but,  for  my  own  part, 
I  believe  he's  a  Jesuit. 

Dor.     A  Jesuit!   why  a  Jesuit? 

Scrub.  Because  he  keeps  his  horses  al- 
ways ready  saddled,  and  his  footman  talks 
French. 

Mrs.  Sul.     His  footman! 

Scrub.  Ay,  he  and  the  Count's  footman 
were  jabbering  French  like  two  intriguing 
ducks  in  a  mill-pond;  and  I  believe  they 
talked  of  me,  for  they  laughed  consumedly. 

Dor.  What  sort  of  livery  has  the  foot- 
man? 

Scrub.  Livery!  Lord,  madam,  I  took  him 
for  a  captain,  he's  so  bedizened  with  lace! 
And  then  he  has  tops  to  his  shoes,  up  to  his 
mid  leg,  a  silver-headed  cane  dangling  at  his 
knuckles;  he  carries  his  hands  in  his  pockets 
just  so — [walks  in  the  French  air] — and  has  a 
fine  long  periwig  tied  up  in  a  bag. — Lord, 
madam,  he's  clear  another  sort  of  man 
than  I! 

Mrs.  Sul.  That  may  easily  be. — But  what 
shall  we  do  now,  sister? 

Dor.  I  have  it — this  fellow  has  a  world  of 
simplicity,  and  some  cunning;  the  first  hides 
the  latter  by  abundance. — Scrub! 

Scrub.     Madam! 


Dor.  We  have  a  great  mind  to  know  who 
this  gentleman  is,  only  for  our  satisfaction. 

St-riih.  Yes,  madam,  it  would  be  a  satis- 
faction, no  doubt. 

Dor.  You  must  go  and  get  acquainted  with 
his  footman,  and  invite  him  hither  to  drink 
a  bottle  of  your  ale,  because  you're  butler 
to-day. 

Scrub.  Yes,  madam,  I  am  butler  every 
Sunday. 

Mrs.  Sul.  O  brave!  sister,  o'  my  con- 
science, you  understand  the  mathematics  al- 
ready. TTis  the  best  plot  in  the  world:  your 
mother,  you  know,  will  be  gone  to  church,  my 
spouse  will  be  got  to  the  ale-house  with  his 
scoundrels,  and  the  house  will  be  our  own — 
so  we  drop  in  by  accident,  and  ask  the  fellow 
some  questions  ourselves.  In  the  country, 
you  know,  any  stranger  is  company,  and 
we're  glad  to  take  up  with  the  butler  in  a 
country-dance  and  happy  if  he'll  do  us  the 
favor. 

Scrub.  O  madam,  you  wrong  me!  I  never 
refused  your  ladyship  the  favor  in  my  life. 

Enter  GIPSY. 

Gip.     Ladies,  dinner's  upon  table. 
Dor.     Scrub,    we'll    excuse    your   waiting — 
go  where  we  ordered  you. 

Scrub.     I  shall.  [Exeunt. 

SCENE  II 

A   Room  in  BONIFACE'S  Inn. 
Enter  AIMWELL  and  ARCHER. 

Arch.  Well,  Tom,  I  find  you're  a  marks- 
man. 

Aim.  A  marksman!  who  so  blind  could  be, 
as  not  discern  a  swan  among  the  ravens? 

Arch.     Well,  but  hark'ee,   Aimwell ! 

Aim.  Aimwell!  call  me  Oroondates,  Cesa- 
rio,  Amadis,  all  that  romance  can  in  a  lover 
paint,  and  then  I'll  answer.  O  Archer!  I 
read  her  thousands  in  her  looks,  she  looked 
like  Ceres  in  her  harvest:  corn,  wine  and 
oil,  milk  and  honey,  gardens,  groves,  and 
purling  streams  played  on  her  plenteous  face. 

Arch.  Her  face!  her  pocket,  you  mean; 
the  corn,  wine  and  oil,  lies  there.  In  short, 
she  has  ten  thousand  pounds,  that's  the 
English  on't. 

Aim.     Her  eyes 

Arch.  Are  demi-cannons,  to  be  sure;  so  I 
won't  stand  their  battery.  [Going. 

Aim.  Pray  excuse  me,  my  passion  must 
have  vent. 

Arch.  Passion!  what  a  plague,  d'ye  think 
these  romantic  airs  will  do  our  business? 
Were  my  temper  as  extravagant  as  yours, 
my  adventures  have  something  more  ro- 
mantic by  half. 

Aim.     Your  adventures ! 

Arch.     Yes, 


172 


THE  BEAUX'  STRATAGEM 


ACT  III,  Sc.  II. 


The  nymph  that  with  her  twice  ten  hundred 

pounds, 

With    brazen    engine    hot,    and    quoif    clear- 
starched, 

Can  fire  the  guest  in  warming  of  the  bed 

There's  a  touch  of  sublime  Milton  for  you, 
and  the  subject  but  an  innkeeper's  daughter! 
I  can  play  with  a  girl  as  an  angler  does  with 
his  fish;  he  keeps  it  at  the  end  of  his  line, 
runs  it  up'  the  stream,  and  down  the  stream, 
till  at  last  he  brings  it  to  hand,  tickles  the 
trout,  and  so  whips  it  into  his  basket. 

Enter  BONIFACE. 

Bon.  Mr.  Martin,  as  the  saying  is — yon- 
der's  an  honest  fellow  below,  my  Lady  Boun- 
tiful's  butler,  who  begs  the  honor  that  you 
would  go  home  with  him  and  see  his  cellar. 

Arch.  Do  my  baise-mains  to  the  gentleman, 
and  tell  him  I  will  do  myself  the  honor  to 
wait  on  him  immediately.  [Exit  BONIFACE. 

Aim.     What  do  I  hear? 
Soft  Orpheus  play,  and  fair  Toftida  sing ! 

Arch.  Psha!  damn  your  raptures;  I  tell 
you,  here's  a  pump  going  to  be  put  into  the 
vessel,  and  the  ship  will  get  into  harbor, 
my  life  on't.  You  say,  there's  another  lady 
very  handsome  there  ? 

Aim.     Yes,  faith. 

Arch.     I'm   in    love   with    her   already. 

Aim.  Can't  you  give  me  a  bill  upon  Cherry 
in  the  meantime? 

Arch.  No,  no,  friend,  all  her  corn,  wine 
and  oil,  is  ingrossed  to  my  market.  And 
once  more  I  warn  you,  to  keep  your  anchor- 
age clear  of  mine;  for  if  you  fall  foul  of 
me,  by  this  light  you  shall  go  to  the  bottom ! 
What!  make  prize  of  my  little  frigate,  while 
I  am  upon  the  cruise  for  you! 

Aim.     Well,  well,  I  won't.         [Exit  ARCHER. 

Re-enter  BONIFACE. 

Landlord,  have  you  any  tolerable  company  in 
the  house,  I  don't  care  for  dining  alone? 

Bon.  Yes,  sir,  there's  a  captain  below,  as 
the  saying  is,  that  arrived  about  an  hour  ago. 

Aim.  Gentlemen  of  his  coat  are  welcome 
everywhere;  will  you  make  him  a  compli- 
ment from  me  and  tell  him  I  should  be  glad 
of  his  company  ? 

Bon.     Who  shall   I   tell   him,   sir,  would 

Aim.  [Aside.}  Ha!  that  stroke  was  well 
thrown  in! — [Aloud.}  I'm  only  a  traveller,  like 
himself,  and  would  be  glad  of  his  company, 
that's  all. 

Bon.  I  obey  your  commands,  as  the  saying 
is.  [Exit. 

Re-enter  ARCHER. 

Arch.  'Sdeath!  I  had  forgot;  what  title 
will  you  give  yourself? 

Aim.  My  brother's,  to  be  sure;  he  would 
never  give  me  anything  else,  so  I'll  make 


bold    with    his    honor    this    bout: — you    know 
the  rest  of  your  cue. 

Arch.     Ay,    ay.  [Exit. 

Enter  GIBBET. 

Gib.     Sir,  I'm   yours. 

Aim.  'Tis  more-  than  I  deserve,  sir,  for  I 
don't  know  you. 

Gib.  I  don't  wonder  at  that,  sir,  for  you 
never  saw  me  before — [Aside.}  I  hope. 

Aim.  And  pray,  sir,  how  came  I  by  the 
honor  of  seeing  you  now? 

Gib.  Sir,  I  scorn  to  intrude  upon  any 
gentleman — but  my  landlord 

Aim.  O  sir,  I  ask  your  pardon,  you're  the 
captain  he  told  me  of? 

Gib.     At  your  service,  sir. 

Aim.     What   regiment,   may    I  be   so   bold? 

Gib.  A  marching  regiment,  sir,  an  old 
corps. 

Aim.  [Aside.}  Very  old,  if  your  coat  be 
regimental.  —  [Aloud.}  You  have  served 
abroad,  sir? 

Gib.  Yes,  sir,  in  the  plantations,  'twas 
my  lot  to  be  sent  into  the  worst  service;  I 
would  have  quitted  it  indeed,  but  a  man  of 
honor,  you  know — Besides,  'twas  for  the 
good  of  my  country  that  I  should  be  abroad: 
— anything  for  the  good  of  one's  country — 
I'm  a  Roman  for  that. 

Aim.  [Aside.}  One  of  the  first;  I'll  lay 
my  life.  [Aloud.}  You  found  the  West  Indies 
very  hot,  sir? 

Gib.     Ay,  sir,  too  hot  for  me. 

Aim.  Pray,  sir,  han't  I  seen  your  face  at 
Will's  coffee-house? 

Gib.     Yes,  sir,  and  at  White's  too. 

Aim.  And  where  is  your  company  now, 
captain  ? 

Gib.     They  an't  come  yet. 

Aim.     Why,  d'ye  expect  'em  here? 

Gib.     They'll   be   here    to-night,    sir. 

Aim.     Which  way  do  they  march? 

Gib.  Across  the  country. — [Aside.}  The 
devil's  in't,  if  I  han't  said  enough  to  encour- 
age him  to  declare!  But  I'm  afraid  he's  not 
right;  I  must  tack  about. 

Aim.  Is  your  company  to  quarter  in  Lich- 
field? 

Gib.     In  this  house,  sir. 

Aim.     What!  all? 

Gib.  My  company's  but  thin,  ha!  ha!  ha! 
we  are  but  three,  ha!  ha!  ha! 

Aim.     You're    merry,    sir. 

Gib.  Ay,  sir,  you  must  excuse  me,  sir;  I 
understand  the  world,  especially  the  art  of 
travelling:  I  don't  care,  sir,  for  answering 
questions  directly  upon  the  road— for  I  gen- 
erally ride  with  a  charge  about  me. 

Aim.  [Aside.}     Three  or  four,  I  believe. 

Gib.  I  am  credibly  informed  that  there 
are  highwaymen  upon  this  quarter;  not,  sir, 
that  I  could  suspect  a  gentleman  of  your 
figure — but  truly,  sir,  I  have  got  such  a  way 


173 


ACT  III,  Sc.  III. 


THE  BEAUX'  STRATAGEM 


of  evasion   upon   the  road,   that   I   don't  care 
for  speaking  truth  to  any  man. 

Aim.  [Aside.}  Your  caution  may  be  neces- 
sary.— [.-J/fuJ.]  Then  I  presume  you're  no 
captain  ? 

Gib.  Not  I,  sir;  captain  is  a  good  travel- 
ling name,  and  so  I  take  it;  it  stops  a  great 
many  foolish  inquiries  that  are  generally 
made  about  gentlemen  that  travel,  it  gives 
a  man  an  air  of  something,  and  makes  the 
drawers  obedient: — and  thus  far  I  am  a  cap- 
tain, and  no  farther. 

Aim.  And  pray,  sir,  what  is  your  true 
profession  ? 

Gib.  O  sir,  you  must  excuse  me! — upon  my 
word,  sir,  I  don't  think  it  safe  to  tell  ye. 

Aim.  Ha!  ha!  ha!  upon  my  word  I  com- 
mend you. 

Re-enter  BONIFACE. 

Well,  Mr.  Boniface,  what's  the  news? 

Bon.  There's  another  gentleman  below,  as 
the  saying  is,  that  hearing  you  were  but  two, 
would  be  glad  to  make  the  third  man,  if  you 
would  give  him  leave. 

Aim.     What    is    he? 

Bon.     A   clergyman,   as  the   saying   is. 

Aim.  A  clergyman!  is  he  really  a  clergy- 
man? or  is  it  only  his  travelling  name,  as 
my  friend  the  captain  has  it? 

Bon.  O  sir,  he's  a  priest,  and  chaplain  to 
the  French  officers  in  town. 

Aim.     Is  he  a  Frenchman? 

Bon.     Yes,   sir,   born  at   Brussels. 

Gib.  A  Frenchman,  and  a  priest !  I  won't 
be  seen  in  his  company,  sir;  I  have  a  value 
for  my  reputation,  sir. 

Aim.  Nay,  but,  captain,  since  we  are  by 
ourselves — Can  he  speak  English,  landlord  ? 

Bon.  Very  well,  sir;  you  may  know  him, 
as  the  saying  is,  to  be  a  foreigner  by  his 
accent,  and  that's  all. 

Aim.  Then  he  has  been  in  England  be- 
fore? 

Bon.  Never,  sir;  but  he's  a  master  of 
languages,  as  the  saying  is;  he  talks  Latin — 
it  does  me  good  to  hear  him  talk  Latin. 

Aim.  Then  you  understand  Latin,  Mr. 
Boniface  ? 

Bon.  Not  I,  sir,  as  the  saying  is;  but  he 
talks  it  so  very  fast,  that  I'm  sure  it  must 
be  good. 

Aim.     Pray,    desire   him    to   walk    up. 

Bon.     Here  he  is,  as  the  saying  is. 

Enter  FOICARD. 

F  i.     Save   you,    gentlemens,  both. 

Aim.  [Aside.}  A  Frenchman! — [To  Foi- 
GARD.]  Sir,  your  most  humble  servant. 

Foi.  Och,  dear  joy,  I  am  your  most  faith- 
ful shervant,  and  yours  alsho. 

Gib.  Doctor,  you  talk  very  good  English, 
but  you  have  a  mighty  twang  of  the  foreigner. 

Foi.     My  English  is  very  veil  for  the  vords, 


but   we   foreigners,    you    know,    cannot   bring 
our  tongues  about  the  pronunciation  so  soon. 

Aim.  [Aside.]  A  foreigner!  a  downright 
Teague,  by  this  light!— [Aloud.}  Were  you 
born  in  France,  doctor? 

Foi.  I  was  educated  in  France,  but  I  was 
horned  at  Brussels;  I  am  a  subject  of  the 
King  of  Spain,  joy. 

Gib.     What  King  of  Spain,  sir?  speak! 

Foi.  Upon  my  shoul,  joy,  I  cannot  tell 
you  as  yet. 

Aim.  Nay,  captain,  that  was  too  hard  upon 
the  doctor;  he's  a  stranger. 

Foi.  Oh,  let  him  alone,  dear  joy;  I  am  of 
a  nation  that  is  not  easily  put  out  of  coun- 
tenance. 

Aim.  Come,  gentlemen,  I'll  end  the  dis- 
pute.— Here,  landlord,  is  dinner  ready? 

Bon.     Upon  the  table,  as  the  saying  is. 

Aim.     Gentlemen — pray — that    door 

Foi.     No,   no,    fait,   the    captain   must   lead. 

Aim.     No,  doctor,  the  church  is  our  guide. 

Gib.     Ay,  ay,  so  it  is. 

[Exit  FOIGARD  foremost,  they  follow. 

SCENE   III 
The  Gallery  in  LADY   BOUNTIFUL'S  House. 

Enter  ARCHER  and  SCRUB  singing,  and  hug- 
ging one  another,  SCRUB  with  a  tankard 
in  his  hand.  GIPSY  listening  at  a  dis- 
tance. 

Scrub.  Tall,  all,  dall! — Come,  my  dear  boy, 
let's  have  that  song  once  more. 

Arch.  No,  no,  we  shall  disturb  the  family. 
— But  will  you  be  sure  to  keep  the  secret? 

Scrub.  Pho!  upon  my  honor,  as  I'm  a  gen- 
tleman. 

Arch.  'Tis  enough.  You  must  know,  then, 
that  my  master  is  the  Lord  Viscount  Aim- 
well;  he  fought  a  duel  t'other  day  in  London, 
wounded  his  man  so  dangerously,  that  he 
thinks  fit  to  withdraw  till  he  hears  whether 
the  gentleman's  wounds  be  mortal  or  not. 
He  never  was  in  this  part  of  England  before, 
so  he  chose  to  retire  to  this  place,  that's  all. 

Gil'.  [Aside.}  And  that's  enough  for  me. 

[Exit. 

Scrub.  And  where  were  you  when  your 
master  fought? 

Arch.  We  never  know  of  our  masters' 
quarrels. 

Scrub.  No!  If  our  masters  in  the  country 
here  receive  a  challenge,  the  first  thing  they 
do  is  to  tell  their  wives;  the  wife  tells  the 
servants,  the  servants  alarm  the  tenants, 
and  in  half  an  hour  you  shall  have  the  whole 
county  in  arms. 

Arch.  To  hinder  two  men  from  doing  what 
they  have  no  mind  for. — But  if  you  should 
chance  to  talk  now  of  my  business  ? 

Scrub.  Talk !  ay,  sir,  had  I  not  learned 
the  knack  of  holding  my  tongue,  I  had  never 
lived  so  long  in  a  great  family. 


174 


THE  BEAUX'  STRATAGEM 


ACT  III,  So.  III. 


Arch.  Ay,  ay,  to  be  sure  there  are  secrets 
in  all  families. 

Scrub.  Secrets!  ay; — but  I'll  say  no  more. 
Come,  sit  down,  we'll  make  an  end  of  our 
tankard:  here [Gives  ARCHER  the  tankard. 

Arch.  With  all  my  heart;  who  knows  but 
you  and  I  may  come  to  be  better  acquainted, 
eh?  Here's  your  ladies'  healths;  you  have 
three,  I  think,  and  to  be  sure  there  must  be 
secrets  among  'em. 

Scrub.  Secrets!  ay,  friend.— I  wish  I  had 
a  friend! 

Arch.  Am  not  I  your  friend?  Come,  you 
and  I  will  be  sworn  brothers. 

Scrub.     Shall  we? 

Arch.  From  this  minute.  Give  me  a  kiss: 
— and  now,  brother  Scrub 

Scrub.  And  now,  brother  Martin,  I  will 
tell  you  a  secret  that  will  make  your  hair 
stand  on  end.  You  must  know  that  I  am 
consumedly  in  love. 

Arch.  That's  a  terrible  secret,  that's  the 
truth  on't. 

Scrub.  That  jade,  Gipsy,  that  was  with 
us  just  now  in  the  cellar,  is  the  arrantest 
whore  that  ever  wore  a  petticoat;  and  I'm 
dying  for  love  of  her. 

Arch.  Ha!  ha!  ha! — Are  you  in  love  with 
her  person  or  her  virtue,  brother  Scrub? 

Scrub.  I  should  like  virtue  best,  be- 
cause it  is  more  durable  than  beauty:  for 
virtue  holds  good  with  some  women  long, 
and  many  a  day  after  they  have  lost  it. 

Arch.  In  the  country,  I  grant  yc,  where 
no  woman's  virtue  is  lost,  till  a  bastard  be 
found. 

Scrub.  Ay,  could  I  bring  her  to  a  bastard, 
I  should  have  her  all  to  myself;  but  I  dare 
not  put  it  upon  that  lay,  for  fear  of  being 
sent  for  a  soldier.  Pray,  brother,  how  do 
you  gentlemen  in  London  like  that  same 
Pressing  Act? 

Arch.  Very  ill,  brother  Scrub;  'tis  the 
worst  that  ever  was  made  for  us.  Formerly 
I  remember  the  good  days,  when  we  could 
dun  our  masters  for  our  wages,  and  if  they 
refused  to  pay  us,  we  could  have  a  warrant 
to  carry  'em  before  a  Justice:  but  now  if 
we  talk  of  eating,  they  have  a  warrant  for 
us,  and  carry  us  before  three  Justices. 

Scrub.  And  to  be  sure  we  go,  if  we  talk 
of  eating;  for  the  Justices  won't  give  their 
own  servants  a  bad  example.  Now  this  is 
my  misfortune — I  dare  not  speak  in  the 
house,  while  that  jade  Gipsy  dings  about  like 
a  fury. — Once  I  had  the  better  end  of  the 
staff. 

Arch.     And  how  comes  the  change  now? 

Scrub.  Why,  the  mother  of  all  this  mis- 
chief is  a  priest. 

Arch.     A  priest! 

Scrub.  Ay,  a  damned  son  of  a  whore  of 
Babylon,  that  came  over  hither  to  say  grace 
to  the  French  officers,  and  eat  up  our  pro- 


visions. There's  not  a  day  goes  over  his 
head  without  a  dinner  or  supper  in  this 
house. 

Arch.  How  came  he  so  familiar  in  the 
family  ? 

Scrub.  Because  he  speaks  English  as  if 
he  had  lived  here  all  his  life,  and  tells  lies 
as  if  he  had  been  a  traveller  from  his  cradle. 

Arch.  And  this  priest,  I'm  afraid,  has 
converted  the  affections  of  your  Gipsy? 

Scrub.  Converted!  ay,  and  perverted,  my 
dear  friend:  for,  I'm  afraid,  he  has  made 
her  a  whore  and  a  papist!  But  this  is  not 
all;  there's  the  French  count  and  Mrs.  Sul- 
len, they're  in  the  confederacy,  and  for  some 
private  ends  of  their  own,  to  be  sure. 

Arch.  A  very  hopeful  family  yours, 
brother  Scrub !  I  suppose  the  maiden  lady 
has  her  lover  too? 

Scrub.  Not  that  I  know.  She's  the  best 
on  'em,  that's  the  truth  on't.  But  they  take 
care  to  prevent  my  curiosity,  by  giving  me 
so  much  business,  that  I'm  a  perfect  slave. 
What  d'ye  think  is  my  place  in  this  family? 

Arch.     Butler,    I    suppose. 

Scrub.  Ah,  Lord  help  you!  I'll  tell  you. 
Of  a  Monday  I  drive  the  coach;  of  a  Tuesday 
I  drive  the  plough;  on  Wednesday  I  follow 
the  hounds;  a  Thursday  I  dun  the  tenants; 
on  Friday  I  go  to  market;  on  Saturday  I 
draw  warrants;  and  a  Sunday  I  draw  beer. 

Arch.  Ha!  ha!  ha!  if  variety  be  a  pleasure 
in  life,  you  have  enough  on't,  my  dear 
brother.  But  what  ladies  are  those? 

Enter  MRS.   SULLEN   and  DORINDA. 

Scrub.  Ours,  ours;  that  upon  the  right 
hand  is  Mrs.  Sullen,  and  the  other  is  Mrs. 
Dorinda.  Don't  mind  'em;  sit  still,  man. 

Mrs.  Sul.  I  have  heard  my  brother  talk 
of  my  Lord  Aim  well;  but  they  say  that  his 
brother  is  the  finer  gentleman. 

Dor.     That's    impossible,    sister. 

Mrs.  Sul.  He's  vastly  rich,  but  very  close, 
they  say. 

Dor.  No  matter  for  that;  if  I  can  creep 
into  his  heart,  I'll  open  his  breast,  I  warrant 
him.  I  have  heard  say,  that  people  may  be 
guessed  at  by  the  behavior  of  their  serv- 
ants; I  could  wish  we  might  talk  to  that 
fellow. 

Mrs.  Sul.  So  do  I;  for  I  think  he's  a  very 
pretty  fellow.  Come  this  way,  I'll  throw  out 
a  lure  for  him  presently. 

[They    walk    a    turn    towards    the    opposite 
side  of  the  stage. 

Arch.  [Aside.]  Corn,  wine,  and  oil  indeed! 
— But,  I  think,  the  wife  has  the  greatest 
plenty  of  flesh  and  blood;  she  should  be  my 
choice. — Ay,  ay,  say  you  so!— [MRS.  SULLEN 
drops  her  glove,  ARCHER  runs,  takes  it  up  and 
gives  to  her.]  Madam — your  ladyship's 
glove. 

Mrs.    Sul.     O   sir,    I    thank   you!— [To    Do- 


175 


ACT  III,  Sc.  III. 


THE  BEAUX'  STRATAGEM 


RINDA.]  What  a  handsome  bow  the  fellow 
has! 

Dor.  Bow!  why,  i  have  known  several 
footmen  come  down  from  London  set  up  here 
for  dancing-masters,  and  carry  off  the  best 
fortunes  in  the  country. 

Arch.  [Aside.}  That  project,  for  aught 
I  know,  had  been  better  than  ours. — [To 
SCRUB.]  Brother  Scrub,  why  don't  you  intro- 
duce me? 

Scrub.  Ladies,  this  is  the  strange  gentle- 
man's servant  that  you  saw  at  church  to- 
day; I  understood  he  came  from  London,  and 
so  I  invited  him  to  the  cellar,  that  he  might 
show  me  the  newest  flourish  in  whetting  my 
knives. 

Dor.  And  I  hope  you  have  made  much  of 
him? 

Arch.  Oh  yes,  madam,  but  the  strength  of 
your  ladyship's  liquor  is  a  little  too  potent 
for  the  constitution  of  your  humble  servant. 

Mrs.  Sul.  What,  then  you  don't  usually 
drink  ale? 

Arch.  No,  madam;  my  constant  drink  is 
tea,  or  a  little  wine  and  water.  Tis  pre- 
scribed me  by  the  physician  for  a  remedy 
against  the  spleen. 

Scrub.  Oh  la!  Oh  la!  a  footman  have  the 
spleen ! 

Mrs.  Sul.  I  thought  that  distemper  had 
been  only  proper  to  people  of  quality? 

Arch.  Madam,  like  all  other  fashions  it 
wears  out,  and  so  descends  to  their  serv- 
ants; though  in  a  great  many  of  us,  I  be- 
lieve, it  proceeds  from  some  melancholy 
particles  in  the  blood,  occasioned  by  the 
stagnation  of  wages. 

Dor.  [Aside  to  MRS.  SULLEN.]  How  af- 
fectedly the  fellow  talks!— [To  ARCHER.]  How 
long,  pray,  have  you  served  your  present 
master? 

Arch.  Not  long;  my  life  has  been  mostly 
spent  in  the  service  of  the  ladies. 

Mrs.  Sul.  And  pray,  which  service  do  you 
like  best? 

Arch.  Madam,  the  ladies  pay  best;  the 
honor  of  serving  them  is  sufficient  wages; 
there  is  a  charm  in  their  looks  that  delivers 
a  pleasure  with  their  commands,  and  gives 
our  duty  the  wings  of  inclination. 

Mrs.  Sul.  [Aside.}  That  flight  was  above 
the  pitch  of  a  livery. — [Aloud.}  And,  sir, 
would  not  you  be  satisfied  to  serve  a  lady 
again  ? 

Arch.  As  a  groom  of  the  chamber, 
madam,  but  not  as  a  footman. 

Mrs.  Sul.  I  suppose  you  served  as  foot- 
man before? 

Arch.  For  that  reason  I  would  not  serve 
in  that  post  again;  for  my  memory  is  too 
weak  for  the  load  of  messages  that  the 
ladies  lay  upon  their  servants  in  London. 
My  Lady  Howd'ye,  the  last  mistress  I 
served,  called  me  up  one  morning,  and  told 


me,  "  Martin,  go  to  my  Lady  Allnight  with 
my  humble  service;  tell  her  I  was  to  wait 
on  her  ladyship  yesterday,  and  left  word 
with  Mrs.  Rebecca,  that  the  preliminaries 
of  the  affair  she  knows  of,  are  stopped  till 
we  know  the  concurrence  of  the  person  that 
I  know  of,  for  which  there  are  circumstances 
wanting  which  we  shall  accommodate  at  the 
old  place;  but  that  in  the  meantime  there  is 
a  person  about  her  ladyship,  that  from  sev- 
eral hints  and  surmises,  was  accessory  at  a 
certain  time  to  the  disappointments  that 
naturally  attend  things,  that  to  her  knowl- 
edge are  of  more  importance " 

Mrs.  Sul.,  Dor.  Ha!  ha!  ha!  where  are 
you  going,  sir? 

Arch.  Why,  I  han't  half  done!-The  whole 
howd'ye  was  about  half  an  hour  long;  so  I 
happened  to  misplace  two  syllables,  and  was 
turned  off,  and  rendered  incapable. 

Dor.  [Aside  to  MRS.  SULLEN.]  The  pleas- 
ant est  fellow,  sister,  I  ever  saw! — [To 
ARCHER.]  But,  friend,  if  your  master  be 
married,  I  presume  you  still  serve  a  lady? 

Arch.  No,  madam,  I  take  care  never  to 
come  into  a  married  family;  the  commands 
of  the  master  and  mistress  are  always  so 
contrary,  that  'tis  impossible  to  please  both. 

Dor.  There's  a  main  point  gained:  my 
lord  is  not  married,  I  find.  [Aside. 

Mrs.  Sul.  But  I  wonder,  friend,  that  in 
so  many  good  services,  you  had  not  a  bet- 
ter provision  made  for  you. 

Arch.  I  don't  know  how,  madam.  I  had 
a  lieutenancy  offered  me  three  or  four  times; 
but  that  is  not  bread,  madam — I  live  much 
better  as  I  do. 

Scrub.  Madam,  he  sings  rarely !  I  was 
thought  to  do  pretty  well  here  in  the  coun- 
try till  he  came;  but  alack  a  day,  I'm  noth- 
ing to  my  brother  Martin! 

Dor.  Does  he? — Pray,  sir,  will  you  oblige 
us  with  a  song? 

.trch.     Are  you  for  passion  or  humor? 

Scrub.  Oh  le!  he  has  the  purest  ballad 
about  a  trifle 

Mrs.  Sul.     A  trifle!  pray,  sir,  let's  have  it. 

Arch.  I'm  ashamed  to  offer  you  a  trifle, 
madam;  but  since  you  command  me — 

[Sings    to    the    tune    of    "  Sir    Simon    the 
King." 

A    trifling    song    you    shall    hear, 
Begun   with   a   trifle  and  ended: 
All    trifling   people   draw   near, 
And  I  shall  be  nobly  attended. 

Were  it  not  for  trifles,  a  few, 
That  lately   have  come  into  play; 
The  men  would   want  something   to   do, 
And  the  women  want  something  to  say. 


What  makes  men  trifle  in  dressing? 
Because  the  ladies  (they  know) 


176 


THE  BEAUX'  STRATAGEM 


ACT  III,  So.  III. 


Admire,  by  often  possessing, 
That    eminent    trifle,    a   beau. 

When  the  lover  his  moments  has  trifled, 
The    trifle    of    trifles    to    gain: 
No  sooner  the  virgin  is  rifled, 
But   a  trifle   shall   part   'em   again. 

What  mortal  man   would  be  able 
At   White's   half  an   hour   to   sit? 
Or  who  could  bear  a  tea-table, 
Without  talking  of  trifles  for  wit? 

The   court   is   from   trifles    secure, 
Gold    keys    are    no    trifles,    we    see: 
White  rods  are  no  trifles,  I'm  sure, 
Whatever   their   bearers   may   be. 

But   if   you   will   go   to   the   place, 
Where  trifles  abundantly  breed, 
The  levee  will  show  you  His  Grace 
Makes    promises    trifles    indeed. 

A  coach  with  six  footmen  behind, 
I   count  neither   trifle  nor   sin: 
But,  ye  gods!  how  oft  do   we  find 
A  scandalous   trifle  within. 

A  flask  of  champagne,  people  think  it 
A  trifle,   or  something  as  bad: 
But  if  you'll   contrive  how   to   drink  it, 
You'll  find   it  no   trifle,   egad! 

A  parson's  a  trifle  at  sea, 

A   widow's  a  trifle   in  sorrow: 

A  peace  is  a  trifle  to-day, 

Who  knows   what  may  happen  to-morrow! 

A  black   coat   a   trifle   may   cloak, 
Or  to  hide  it,  the  red  may  endeavor: 
But   if   once    the   army    is    broke, 
We  shall  have  more  trifles  than  ever. 

The  stage  is  a  trifle,  they  say, 

The  reason,   pray  carry  along, 

Because    at    every    new    play, 

The  house  they  with  trifles  so  throng. 

But  with  people's  malice  to  trifle, 
And    to   set   us   all   on   a   foot: 
The   author  of   this   is   a  trifle, 
And  his  song  is  a  trifle   to  boot. 

Mrs.  Sul.  Very  well,  sir,  we're  obliged  to 
you. — Something  for  a  pair  of  gloves. 

[Offering   him   money. 

Arch.  I  humbly  beg  leave  to  be  excused: 
my  master,  madam,  pays  me;  nor  dare  I 
take  money  from  any  other  hand,  without 
injuring  his  honor,  and  disobeying  his  com- 
mands. [Ex-it  with  SCRUB. 

Dor.  This  is  surprising!  Did  you  ever 
see  so  pretty  a  well-bred  fellow? 

Mrs.  Sul.  The  devil  take  him  for  wearing 
that  livery! 

Dor.  I  fancy,  sister,  he  may  be  some  gen- 
tleman, a  friend  of  my  lord's,  that  his  lord- 


ship has  pitched  upon  for  his  courage,  fidel- 

177 


ity,  and  discretion,  to  bear  him  company  in 
this  dress,  and  who  ten  to  one  was  his  second 
too. 

Mrs.  Sul.  It  is  so,  it  must  be  so,  and  it 
shall  be  so ! — for  I  like  him. 

Dor.     What!  better  than  the  Count? 

Airs.  Sul.  The  Count  happened  to  be  the 
most  agreeable  man  upon  the  place;  and  so 
I  chose  him  to  serve  me  in  my  design  upon 
my  husband.  But  I  should  like  this  fellow 
better  in  a  design  upon  myself. 

Dor.  But  now,  sister,  for  an  interview 
with  this  lord  and  this  gentleman;  how  shall 
we  bring  that  about? 

Mrs.  Sul.  Patience!  you  country  ladies 
give  no  quarter  if  once  you  be  entered. 
Would  you  prevent  their  desires,  and  give 
the  fellows  no  wishing- time?  Look'ee,  Do- 
rinda,  if  my  Lord  Aimwell  loves  you  or  de- 
serves you,  he'll  find  a  way  to  see  you,  and 
there  we  must  leave  it.  My  business  comes 
now  upon  the  tapis.  Have  you  prepared 
your  brother? 

Dor.     Yes,   yes. 

Mrs.   Sul.     And  how  did  he  relish  it? 

Dor.  He  said  little,  mumbled  something 
to  himself,  promised  to  be  guided  by  me — 
but  here  he  comes. 

Enter  SULLEN. 

Squire  Sul.  What  singing  was  that  I 
heard  just  now? 

Mrs.  Sul.  The  singing  in  your  head,  my 
dear;  you  complained  of  it  all  day. 

Squire  Sul.     You're  impertinent. 

Mrs.  Sul.  I  was  ever  so,  since  I  became 
one  flesh  with  you. 

Squire  Sul.  One  flesh!  rather  two  car- 
casses joined  unnaturally  together. 

Mrs.  Sul.  Or  rather  a  living  soul  coupled 
to  a  dead  body. 

Dor.  So,  this  is  fine  encouragement  for 
me! 

Squire  Sul.  Yes,  my  wife  shows  you  what 
you  must  do. 

Mrs.  Sul.  And  my  husband  shows  you 
what  you  must  suffer. 

Squire  Sul.  'Sdeath,  why  can't  you  be 
silent  ? 

Mrs.  Sul.     'Sdeath,  why  can't  you  talk? 

Squire  Sul.     Do  you  talk  to  any  purpose? 

Mrs.  Sul.     Do  you   think  to  any  purpose? 

Squire  Sul.  Sister,  hark'ee! — [Whispers.'} 
I  shan't  be  home  till  it  be  late.  .  [Exit. 

Mrs.  Sul.     What  did  he  whisper  to  ye? 

Dor.  That  he  would  go  round  the  back 
way,  come  into  the  closet,  and  listen  as  I 
directed  him.  But  let  me  beg  you  once 
more,  dear  sister,  to  drop  this  project;  for 
as  I  told  you  before,  instead  of  awaking  him 
to  kindness,  you  may  provoke  him  to  a  rage; 
and  then  who  knows  how  far  his  brutality 
may  carry  him? 

Mrs.   Sul.     I'm  provided  to  receive  him,   I 


ACT  III,  Sc.  III. 


THE  BEAUX'  STRATAGEM 


warrant 
vanish  I 


you. 


But    here    comes    the    Count: 

[Exit    DORINDA. 


Enter  COUNT  BELLAIR, 


Don't  you  wonder,  Monsieur  le  Count,  that  I 
was  not  at  church  this  afternoon? 

Count  Bel.  I  more  wonder,  madam,  that 
you  go  dere  at  all,  or  how  you  dare  to  lift 
those  eyes  to  heaven  that  are  guilty  of  so 


much    killing. 
Mrs.    Sul.     If 


Heaven,    sir,    has    given    to 


my  eyes  with  the  power  of  killing  the  virtue 
of  making  a  cure,  I  hope  the  one  may  atone 
for  the  other. 

Count  Bel.  Oh,  largely,  madam,  would 
your  ladyship  be  as  ready  to  apply  the 
remedy  as  to  give  the  wound.  Consider, 
madam,  I  am  doubly  a  prisoner;  first  to 
the  arms  of  your  general,  then  to  your  more 
conquering  eyes.  My  first  chains  are  easy- 
there  a  ransom  may  redeem  me;  but  from 
your  fetters  I  never  shall  get  free. 

Mrs.  Sul.  Alas,  sir!  why  should  you 
complain  to  me  of  your  captivity,  who  am 
in  chains  myself?  You  know,  sir,  that  I 
am  bound,  nay,  must  be  tied  up  in  that 
particular  that  might  ;?ive  you  ease:  I  am 
like  you,  a  prisoner  of  war — of  war,  indeed — 
I  have  given  my  parole  of  honor!  would  you 
break  yours  to  gain  your  liberty? 

Count  Bel.  Most  certainly  I  would,  were 
I  a  prisoner  among  the  Turks;  dis  is  your 
case,  you're  a  slave,  madam,  slave  to  the 
worst  of  Turks,  a  husband. 

Mrs.  Sul.  There  lies  my  foible,  I  confess; 
no  fortifications,  no  courage,  conduct,  nor 


defend 
governor 


place 


forces 


vigilancy,  can  pretend  to 
where  the  cruelty  of  the 
the  garrison  to  mutiny. 

Count  Bel.  And  where  de  besieger  is  re- 
solved to  die  before  de  place. — Here  will  I 
fix  [Kneels']; — with  tears,  vows,  and  prayers 
assault  your  heart  and  never  rise  till  you 
surrender;  or  if  I  must  storm — Love  and 
St.  Michael! — And  so  I  begin  the  attack. 

Mrs.  Sul.  Stand  off !—  [Aside.}  Sure  he 
hears  me  not! — And  I  could  almost  wish — he 
did  not ! — The  fellow  makes  love  very  pret- 
tily.— [.-lloiiii.]  But,  sir,  why  should  you  put 
such  a  value  upon  my  person,  when  you  see 
it  despised  by  one  that  knows  it  so  much 
better? 

Count  Bel.  He  knows  it  not,  though  he 
possesses  it;  if  he  but  knew  the  value  of  the 
jewel  he  is  master  of,  he  would  always  wear 
it  next  his  heart,  and  sleep  with  it  in  his 
arms. 

Mrs.  Sul.  But  since  he  throws  me  un- 
regarded from  him 

Count  Bel.  And  one  that  knows  your 
value  well  comes  by  and  takes  you  up,  is  it 


not  justice?  [Goes  to  lay  hold  of  her. 

Enter    SULLEN    with   his   sword    drawn. 

178 


Squire   Sul.     Hold,   villain,   hold! 

Mrs.  Sul.  [Presenting  a  pistol.]  Do  you 
hold! 

Squire  Sir/.  What!  murder  your  husband, 
to  defend  your  bully! 

Mrs.  Sul.  Bully!  for  shame,  Mr.  Sullen, 
bullies  wear  long  swords,  the  gentleman  has 
none;  he's  a  prisoner,  you  know.  I  was 
aware  of  your  outrage,  and  prepared  this  to 
receive  your  violence;  and,  if  occasion  were, 
to  preserve  myself  against  the  force  of  this 
other  gentleman. 

Count  Bel.  O  madam,  your  eyes  be  bettre 
firearms  than  your  pistol;  they  never  miss. 

Squire  Sul.  What!  court  my  wife  to  my 
face! 

Mrs.  Sul.  Pray,  Mr.  Sullen,  put  up;  sus- 
pend your  fury  for  a  minute. 

Squire  Sul.  To  give  you  time  to  invent 
an  excuse ! 

Mrs.  Sul.     I  need  none. 

Squire  Sul.  No,  for  I  heard  every  syllable 
of  your  discourse. 

Count  Bel.  Ah!  and  begar,  I  tink  the  dia- 
logue was  vera  pretty. 

Mrs.  Sul.  Then  I  suppose,  sir,  you  heard 
something  of  your  own  barbarity? 

Squire  Sul.  Barbarity!  'Oons,  what  does 
the  woman  call  barbarity?  Do  I  ever  meddle 
with  you  ? 

Mrs.    Sul.     No. 

Squire  Sul.  As  for  you,  sir,  I  shall  take 
another  time. 

Count  Bel.     Ah,  begar,  and  so  must  I. 

Squire  Sul.  Look'ee,  madam,  don't  think 
that  my  anger  proceeds  from  any  concern  I 
have  for  your  honor,  but  for  my  own,  and 
if  you  can  contrive  any  way  of  being  a 
whore  without  making  me  a  cuckold,  do  it 
and  welcome. 

Mrs.  Sul.  Sir,  I  thank  you  kindly,  you 
would  allow  me  the  sin  but  rob  me  of  the 
pleasure.  No,  no,  I'm  resolved  never  to 
venture  upon  the  crime  without  the  satis- 
faction of  seeing  you  punished  for't. 

Squire  Sul.  Then  will  you  grant  me  this, 
my  dear?  Let  anybody  else  do  you  the 
favor  but  that  Frenchman,  for  I  mortally 


hate    his    whole    generation. 


[Exit. 


Count  Bel.  Ah,  sir,  that  be  ungrateful, 

for  begar,  I  love  some  of  yours. — Madam 

[Approaching  her. 

Mrs.   Sul.     No,   sir. 

Count  Bel.  No,  sir!  garzoon,  madam,  I 
am  not  your  husband. 

Mrs.  Sul.  'Tis  time  to  undeceive  you, 
sir.  I  believed  your  addresses  to  me  were  no 
more  than  an  amusement,  and  I  hope  you 
will  think  the  same  of  my  complaisance; 
and  to  convince  you  that  you  ought,  you 
must  know  that  I  brought  you  hither  only 


to  make  you  instrumental  in  setting  me 
right  with  my  husband,  for  he  was  planted 
to  listen  by  my  appointment. 


THE  BEAUX'  STRATAGEM 


ACT  IV,  Sc.  I. 


Count    Bel.     By    your    appointment? 

Mrs.    Sul.     Certainly. 

Count  Bel.  And  so,  madam,  while  I  was 
telling  twenty  stories  to  part  you  from  your 
husband,  begar,  I  was  bringing  you  together 
all  the  while? 

Mrs.  Sul.  I  ask  your  pardon,  sir,  but  I 
hope  this  will  give  you  a  taste  of  the  virtue 
of  the  English  ladies. 

Count  Bel.  Begar,  madam,  your  virtue  be 
vera  great,  but  garzoon,  your  honeste  be 
vera  little. 

Re-enter  DORINDA.       / 

Mrs.    Sul.     Nay,    now,    you're    angry,    sir. 

Count  Bel.  Angry! — Fair  Dorinda  [Sings 
'  Fair  Dorinda,'  the  opera  tune,  and  addresses 
Dorinda.']  Madam,  when  your  ladyship  want 


a  fool,  send  for  me. 

etc. 


Fair  Dorinda,   Revenge, 
[Exit    singing. 


Mrs.  Sul.  There  goes  the  true  humor  of 
his  nation— resentment  with  good  manners, 
and  the  height  of  anger  in  a  song!  Well, 
sister,  you  must  be  judge,  for  you  have 
heard  the  trial. 

Dor.     And    I    bring   in   my   brother   guilty. 

Mrs.  Sul.  But  I  must  bear  the  punish- 
ment. 'Tis  hard,  sister. 

Dor.  I  own  it;  but  you  must  have  pa- 
tience. 

Mrs.  Sul.  Patience!  the  cant  of  custom- 
Providence  sends  no  evil  without  a  remedy. 
Should  I  lie  groaning  under  a  yoke  I  can 
shake  off,  I  were  accessory  to  my  ruin,  and 
my  patience  were  no  better  than  self-murder. 

Dor.  But  how  can  you  shake  off  the 
yoke?  your  divisions  don't  come  within  the 
reach  of  the  law  for  a  divorce. 

Mrs.  Sul.  Law!  what  law  can  search  into 
the  remote  abyss  of  nature?  What  evidence 
can  prove  the  unaccountable  disaffections  of 
wedlock?  Can  a  jury  sum  up  the  endless 
aversions  that  are  rooted  in  our  souls,  or 
can  a  bench  give  judgment  upon  antipathies? 

Dor.  They  never  pretended,  sister;  they 
never  meddle,  but  in  case  of  uncleanness. 

Mrs.  Sul.  Uncleanness!  O  sister!  casual 
violation  is  a  transient  injury,  and  may 
possibly  be  repaired,  but  can  radical  hatreds 
be  ever  reconciled?  No,  no,  sister,  nature 
is  the  first  lawgiver,  and  when  she  has  set 
tempers  opposite,  not  all  the  golden  links  of 
wedlock  nor  iron  manacles  of  law  can  keep 
'em  fast. 

Wedlock    we   own   ordain'd  by    Heaven's    de- 
cree, 

But  such  as  Heaven  ordain'd  it  first  to  be; — 
Concurring  tempers  in  the  man  and  wife 
As  mutual  helps  to  draw  the  load  of  life. 
View  all  the  works  of  Providence   above, 
The   stars  with   harmony  and   concord  move; 
View  all   the  works  of   Providence  below, 
The  fire,  the  water,  earth  and  air,  we  know, 
AH  in  one  plant  agree  to  make  it  grow. 


Must  man,   the   chiefest  work   of   art  divine, 
Be  doomed  in  endless  discord  to  repine? 
No,   we   should   injure    Heaven   by   that   sur- 
mise, 
Omnipotence  is  just,  were  man  but  wise. 


ACT  IV 

SCENE   I 

The  Gallery  in  LADY  BOUNTIFUL'S  House. 
Enter  MRS.  SULLEN. 

Mrs.  Sul.  Were  I  born  an  humble  Turk, 
where  women  have  no  soul  nor  property, 
there  I  must  sit  contented.  But  in  England, 
a  country  whose  women  are  its  glory,  must 
women  be  abused?  Where  women  rule,  must 
women  be  enslaved?  Nay,  cheated  into 
slavery,  mocked  by  a  promise  of  comfort- 
able society  into  a  wilderness  of  solitude! 
I  dare  not  keep  the  thought  about  me.  Oh, 
here  comes  something  to  divert  me. 

Enter  a  COUNTRYWOMAN. 

Worn.  I  come,  an't  please  your  ladyship 
— you're  my  Lady  Bountiful,  an't  ye? 

Mrs.  Sul.     Well,   good   woman,   go  on. 

Wont.  I  have  come  seventeen  long  mail 
to  have  a  cure  for  my  husband's  sore  leg. 

Mrs.  Sul.  Your  husband!  what,  woman, 
cure  your  husband ! 

Worn.  Ay,  poor  man,  for  his  sore  leg 
won't  let  him  stir  from  home. 

Mrs.  Sul.  There,  I  confess,  you  have 
given  me  a  reason.  Well,  good  woman,  I'll 
tell  you  what  you  must  do.  You  must  lay 
your  husband's  leg  upon  a  table,  and  with  a 
chopping-knif-  you  must  lay  it  open  as 
broad  as  you  can,  then  you  must  take  out 
the  bone,  and  beat  the  flesh  soundly  with  a 
rolling-pin;  then  take  salt,  pepper,  cloves, 
mace,  and  ginger,  some  sweet-herbs,  and 
season  it  very  well;  then  roll  it  up  like 
brawn,  and  put  it  into  the  oven  for  two 
hours. 

Worn.  Heavens  reward  your  ladyship! — 
I  have  two  little  babies  too  that  are  piteous 
bad  with  the  graips,  an't  please  ye. 

Mrs.  Sul.  Put  a  little  pepper  and  sa't  in 
their  bellies,  good  woman. 

Enter  LADY   BOUNTIFUL. 

I  beg  your  ladyship's  pardon  for  taking  your 
business  out  of  your  hands;  I  have  been 
a-tampering  here  a  little  with  one  of  your 
patients. 

Lady  Boun.  Come,  good  woman,  don't 
mind  this  mad  creature;  I  am  the  person 
that  you  want,  I  suppose.  What  would  you 
have,  woman? 

Mrs.    Sul.     She    wants    something    for    her 


husband's    sore    leg. 

179 


ACT  IV,  Sc.  I. 


THE  BEAUX'  STRATAGEM 


Ld</v  Bonn.  What's  the  matter  with  his 
leg,  goody  ? 

Worn.  It  come  first,  as  one  might  say, 
with  a  sort  of  dizziness  in  his  foot,  then  he 
had  a  kind  of  laziness  in  his  joints,  and  then 
his  leg  broke  out,  and  then  it  swelled,  and 
then  it  closed  again,  and  then  it  broke  out 
again,  and  then  it  festered,  and  then  it  grew 
better,  and  then  it  grew  worse  again. 

Mrs.  Sill.     Ha!  ha!  ha! 

Lady  Bonn.  How  can  you  be  merry  with 
the  misfortunes  of  other  people? 

Mrs.  Sul.  Because  my  own  make  me  sad, 
madam. 

Lady  Boun.  The  worst  reason  in  the 
world,  daughter;  your  own  misfortunes 
should  teach  you  to  pity  others. 

Mrs.  Sul.  But  the  woman's  misfortunes 
and  mine  are  nothing  alike;  her  husband  is 
sick,  and  mine,  alas,  is  in  health. 

Lady  Boun.  What!  would  you  wish  your 
husband  sick  ? 

Mrs.  Sul.     Not  of  a  sore  leg,  of  all  things. 

Lady  Boun.  Well,  good  woman,  go  to  the 
pantry,  get  your  bellyful  of  victuals,  then 
I'll  give  you  a  receipt  of  diet-drink  for  your 
husband.  But  d'ye  hear,  goody,  you  must 
not  let  your  husband  move  too  much? 

Worn.     No,  no,  madam,  the  poor  man's  in- 


clinable   enough    to    lie    still. 


\Exit. 


Lady  Boun.  Well,  daughter  Sullen,  though 
you  laugh,  I  have  done  miracles  about  the 
country  here  with  my  receipts. 

Airs.  Sul.  Miracles  indeed,  if  they  have 
cured  anybody;  but  I  believe,  madam,  the 
patient's  faith  goes  farther  toward  the 
miracle  than  your  prescription. 

Lady  Bonn.  Fancy  helps  in  some  cases; 
but  there's  your  husband,  who  has  as  little 
fancy  as  anybody,  I  brought  him  from 
death's  door. 

Mrs.  Sul.  I  suppose,  madam,  you  made 
him  drink  plentifully  of  ass's  milk. 

Enter  DORINDA,  runs   to  MRS.   SULLEN. 
Dor.     News,  dear  sister!  news!  news! 
Enter  ARCHER,   running. 

Arch.  Where,  where  is  my  Lady  Bounti- 
ful?— Pray,  which  is  the  old  lady  of  you 
three  ? 

Lady  Boun.     I  am. 

Arch.  O  madam,  the  fame  of  your  lady- 
ship's charity,  goodness,  benevolence,  skill 
and  ability,  have  drawn  me  hither  to  implore 
your  ladyship's  help  in  behalf  of  my  un- 
fortunate master,  who  is  this  moment 
breathing  his  last. 

Lady   Boun.     Your    master!    where    is    he? 

Arch.  At  your  gate,  madam.  Drawn  by 
the  appearance  of  your  handsome  house  to 


view   it   nearer,   and  walking   up    the   avenue 
within   five  paces  of  the  courtyard,   he  was 

180 


taken  ill  of  a  sudden  with  a  sort  of  I  know 
not  what,  but  down  he  fell,  and  there  he 
lies. 

Lady  Boun.  Here,  Scrub!  Gipsy!  all  run, 
get  my  easy  chair  down  stairs,  put  the  gen- 
tleman in  it,  and  bring  him  in  quickly! 
quickly ! 

Arch.  Heaven  will  reward  your  ladyship 
for  this  charitable  act. 

Lady  Boun.  Is  your  master  used  to  these 
fits? 

Arch.  O  yes,  madam,  frequently:  I  have 
known  him  have  five  or  six  of  a  night. 

Lady  Boun.     What's  his  name? 

Arch.  Lord,  madam,  he's  a-dying!  a  min- 
ute's care  or  neglect  may  save  or  destroy 
his  life. 

Lady  Boun.  Ah,  poor  gentleman! — Come, 
friend,  show  me  the  way;  I'll  see  him 
brought  in  myself.  [Exit  with  ARCHER. 

Dor.  O  sister,  my  heart  flutters  about 
strangely!  I  can  hardly  forbear  running  to 
his  assistance. 

Mrs.  Sul.  And  I'll  lay  my  life  he  deserves 
your  assistance  more  than  he  wants  it. 
Did  not  I  tell  you  that  my  lord  would  find 
a  way  to  come  at  you  ?  Love's  his  dis- 
temper, and  you  must  be  the  physician; 
put  on  all  your  charms,  summon  all  your 
fire  into  your  eyes,  plant  the  whole  artillery 
of  your  looks  against  his  breast,  and  down 
with  him. 

Dor.  O  sister!  I'm  but  a  young  gunner; 
I  shall  be  afraid  to  shoot,  for  fear  the  piece 
should  recoil,  and  hurt  myself. 

Mrs.  Sul.  Never  fear,  you  shall  see  me 
shoot  before  you,  if  you  will. 

Dor.  No,  no,  dear  sister;  you  have  missed 
your  mark  so  unfortunately,  that  I  shan't 
care  for  being  instructed  by  you. 

Enter  AIMWELL  in  a  chair  carried  by  ARCHER 
and  SCRUB;  LADY  BOUNTIFUL  and  GIPSY 
following.  AIMWELL  counterfeiting  a  swoon. 

Lady  Boun.  Here,  here,  let's  see  the 
hartshorn  drops. — Gipsy,  a  glass  of  fair 
water!  His  fit's  very  strong. — Bless  me, 
how  his  hands  are  clinched ! 

Arch.  For  shame,  ladies,  what  d'ye  do? 
why  don't  you  help  us? — [To  DORINDA.] 
Pray,  madam,  take  his  hand,  and  open  it, 
if  you  can,  whilst  I  hold  his  head. 

[DORINDA   takes   his   hand. 

Dor.  Poor  gentleman! — Oh! — he  has  got 
my  hand  within  his,  and  squeezes  it  un- 
mercifully  

Lady  Boun.  'Tis  the  violence  of  his  con- 
vulsion, child. 

Arch.  Oh,  madam,  he's  perfectly  pos- 
sessed in  these  cases — he'll  bite  if  you  don't 
have  a  care. 

Dor.     Oh,  my  hand!  my  hand! 

Lady    Boun.     What's   the   matter   with   the 


THE  BEAUX'  STRATAGEM 


ACT  IV,  Sc.  I. 


foolish  girl?    I  have  got  this  hand  open,  you 
see,  with  a  great  deal  of  ease. 

Arch.  Ay,  but,  madam,  your  daughter's 
hand  is  somewhat  warmer  than  your  lady- 
ship's, and  the  heat  of  it  draws  the  force 
of  the  spirits  that  way. 

Mrs.  Sul.  I  find,  friend,  you're  very 
learned  in  these  sorts  of  fits. 

Arch.  'Tis  no  wonder,  madam,  for  I'm 
often  troubled  with  them  myself;  I  find 
myself  extremely  ill  at  this  minute. 

[Looking   hard    at   MRS.    SULLEN. 

Mrs.  Sul.  [Aside.]  I  fancy  I  could  find  a 
way  to  cure  you. 

Lady  Boun.     His  fit   holds   him   very   long. 

Arch.  Longer  than  usual,  madam.— Pray, 
young  lady,  open  his  breast  and  give  him 
air. 

Laity  Boun.  Where  did  his  illness  take 
him  first,  pray? 

Arch.     To-day  at  church,  madam. 

Lady  Boun.  In  what  manner  was  he 
taken  ? 

Arch.  Very  strangely,  my  lady.  He  was 
of  a  sudden  touched  with  something  in  his 
eyes,  which,  at  the  first,  he  only  felt,  but 
could  not  tell  whether  'twas  pain  or  pleasure. 

Lady  Boun.     Wind,   nothing  but  wind! 

Arch.  By  soft  degrees  it  grew  and 
mounted  to  his  brain,  there  his  fancy  caught 
it;  there  formed  it  so  beautiful,  and  dressed 
it  up  in  such  gay,  pleasing  colors,  that  his 
transported  appetite  seized  the  fair  idea, 
and  straight  conveyed  it  to  his  heart.  That 
hospitable  seat  of  life  sent  all  its  sanguine 
spirits  forth  to  meet,  and  opened  all  its 
sluicy  gates  to  take  the  stranger  in. 

Lady  Boun.  Your  master  should  never  go 
without  a  bottle  to  smell  to.— Oh— he  re- 
covers! The  lavender-water—some  feathers 
to  burn  under  his  nose — Hungary  water  to 
rub  his  temples. — Oh,  he  comes  to  himself! — 
Hem  a  little,  sir,  hem.— Gipsy!  bring  the 
cordial-water. 

[AiM WELL  seems  to  awake  in  amaze. 

Dor.     How    d'ye,    sir? 

Aim.     Where   am  I?  [Rising. 

Sure   I   have  pass'd   the   gulf  of   silent   death, 
And  now  I  land  on  the  Elysian  shore! — 
Behold    the    goddess   of    those   happy   plains, 
Fair     Proserpine — let    me    adore     thy     bright 
divinity. 
[Kneels   to    DORINDA,    and   kisses  her  hand. 

Mrs.  Sul.  So,  so,  so!  I  knew  where  the 
fit  would  end ! 

Aim.     Eurydice  perhaps — 
How  could  thy  Orpheus  keep  his  word, 
And   not   look   back   upon   thee? 
No     treasure    but    thyself    could    sure     have 

bribed  him 
To  look  one  minute  off  thee. 

Lady    Boun.     Delirious,    poor    gentleman! 

Arch.  Very  delirious,  madam,  very  de- 
lirious. 


Aim. 
Arch. 


Martin's   voice,  I   think. 
Yes,     my     Lord. — How     does     your 


lordship  ? 

Lady  Boun.  [Aside  to  MRS.  SULLEN  and 
DORINDA.]  Lord!  did  you  mind  that,  girls? 

Aim.     Where  am  I? 

Arch.  In  very  good  hands,  sir.  You  were 
taken  just  now  with  one  of  your  old  fits, 
under  the  trees,  just  by  this  good  lady's 
house;  her  ladyship  had  you  taken  in,  and 
has  miraculously  brought  you  to  yourself, 
as  you  see. 

Aim.  I  am  so  confounded  with  shame, 
madam,  that  I  can  now  only  beg  pardon; 
and  refer  my  acknowledgments  for  your 
ladyship's  care  till  an  opportunity  offers 
of  making  some  amends.  I  dare  be  no  longer 
troublesome. — Martin !  give  two  guineas  to 
the  servants.  [Going. 

Dor.  Sir,  you  may  catch  cold  by  going 
so  soon  into  the  air;  you  don't  look,  sir, 
as  if  you  were  perfectly  recovered. 

[Here   ARCHER   talks   to    LADY    BOUNTIFUL 
in    dumb    show. 

Aim.  That  I  shall  never  be,  madam;  my 
present  illness  is  so  rooted  that  I  must  ex- 
pect to  carry  it  to  my  grave. 

Mrs.  Sul.  Don't  despair,  sir;  I  have 
known  several  in  your  distemper  shake  it  off 
with  a  fortnight's  physic. 

Ludy  Boun.  Come,  sir,  your  servant  has 
been  telling  me  that  you're  apt  to  relapse 
if  you  go  into  the  air:  your  good  manners 
shan't  get  the  better  of  ours — you  shall  sit 
down  again,  sir.  Come,  sir,  we  don't  mind 
ceremonies  in  the  country — here,  sir,  my 
service  t'ye. — You  shall  taste  my  water;  'tis 
a  cordial  I  can  assure  you,  and  of  my  own 
making — drink  it  off,  sir. — [  AIM  WELL  drinks.] 
And  how  d'ye  find  yourself  now,  sir? 

Aim.  Somewhat  better — though  very  faint 
still. 

Lady  Boun.  Ay,  ay,  people  are  always 
faint  after  these  fits. — Come,  girls,  you  shall 
show  the  gentleman  the  house. — 'Tis  but  an 
old  family  building,  sir;  but  you  had  better 
walk  about,  and  cool  by  degrees,  than  ven- 
ture immediately  into  the  air.  You'll  find 
some  tolerable  pictures. — Dorinda,  show  the 
gentleman  the  way.  I  must  go  to  the  poor 


woman    below. 


[Exit. 


Dor. 
Aim. 


This    way,    sir. 

Ladies,    shall    I    beg    leave    for    my 


servant  to  wait  on   you,  for  he   understands 
pictures    very   well  ? 

Mrs.  Sul.  Sir,  we  understand  originals  as 
well  as  he  does  pictures,  so  he  may  come 
along. 

[Exeunt  all  but   SCRUB,  AIMWELL  leading 
DORINDA. 

Enter  FOIGARD. 

Foi.     Save  you,  Master  Scrub! 

Scrub.     Sir,  I   won't  be  saved  your  way — 


181 


ACT  IV,  Sc.  I. 


THE  BEAUX'  STRATAGEM 


I  hate  a  priest,  I  abhor  the  French,  and  I 
defy  the  devil.  Sir,  I'm  a  bold  Briton,  and 
will  spill  the  last  drop  of  my  blood  to  keep 
out  popery  and  slavery. 

Foi.  Master  Scrub,  you  would  put  me 
down  in  politics,  and  so  I  would  be  speaking 
with  Mrs.  Shipsy. 

Scrub.  Good  Mr.  Priest,  you  can't  speak 
with  her;  she's  sick,  sir,  she's  gone  abroad, 
sir,  she's — dead  two  months  ago,  sir. 

Re-enter  GIPSY. 

Gip.  How  now,  impudence!  how  dare  you 
talk  so  saucily  to  the  doctor  ?— Pray,  sir, 
don't  take  it  ill;  for  the  common  people  of 
England  are  not  so  civil  to  strangers,  as 

Scrub.  You  lie!  you  lie!  'tis  the  common 
people  that  are  civilest  to  strangers. 

Gip.  Sirrah,  I  have  a  good  mind  to — get 
you  out,  I  say! 

Scrub.     I   won't. 

Gip.  You  won't,  sauce-box !— Pray,  doctor, 
what  is  the  captain's  name  that  came  to 
your  inn  last  night? 

Scrub.  {Aside.']  The  captain!  ah,  the  devil, 
there  she  hampers  me  again;  the  captain 
has  me  on  one  side,  and  the  priest  on 
t'other:  so  between  the  gown  and  the  sword, 
I  have  a  fine  time  on't. — But,  Cedunt  anna 
toga;.  [Going. 

Gip.     What,   sirrah,   won't  you  march? 

Scrub.  No,  my  dear,  I  won't  march — but 
I'll  walk.— [Aside.]  And  I'll  make  bold  to  lis- 
ten a  little  too. 

[Goes  behind   the  side-scene   and  listens. 

Gip.  Indeed,  doctor,  the  Count  has  been 
barbarously  treated,  that's  the  truth  on't. 

Foi.  Ah,  Mrs.  Gipsy,  upon  my  shoul,  now, 
gra,  his  complainings  would  mollify  the 
marrow  in  your  bones,  and  move  the  bowels 
of  your  commiseration!  He  veeps,  and  he 
dances,  and  he  fistles,  and  he  swears,  and 
he  laughs,  and  he  stamps,  and  he  sings; 
in  conclusion,  joy,  he's  afflicted  it-la-Fran faise, 
and  a  stranger  would  not  know  whider  to 
cry  or  to  laugh  with  him. 

Gip.  What  would  you  have  me  do,  doc- 
tor? 

Foi.  Noting,  joy,  but  only  hide  the  Count 
in  Mrs.  Sullen's  closet  when  it  is  dark. 

Gip.  Nothing!  is  that  nothing?  It  would 
be  both  a  sin  and  a  shame,  doctor. 

Foi.  Here  is  twenty  Lewidores,  joy,  for 
your  shame  and  I  will  give  you  an  absolu- 
tion for  the  shin. 

Gip.  But  won't  that  money  look  like  a 
bribe? 

Foi.  Dat  is  according  as  you  shall  tauk 
it.  If  you  receive  the  money  beforehand, 
'twill  be  logice,  a  bribe;  but  if  you  stay  till 
afterwards,  'twill  be  only  a  gratification. 

Gip.  Well,  doctor,  I'll  take  it  logice.  But 
what  must  I  do  with  my  conscience,  sir? 

Foi.     Leave    dat   wit   me,   joy;    I    am   your 


priest,    gra;    and    your    conscience    is    under 
my  hands. 

Gip.  But  should  I  put  the  Count  into  the 
closet 

Foi.  Vel,  is  dere  any  shin  for  a  man's 
being  in  a  closhet?  one  may  go  to  prayers 
in  a  closhet. 

Gip.  But  if  the  lady  should  come  into  her 
chamber,  and  go  to  bed? 

l-'tii.  Vel,  and  is  dere  any  shin  in  going 
to  bed,  joy? 

.Gip.  Ay,  but  if  the  parties  should  meet, 
doctor  ? 

Foi.  Vel  den — the  parties  must  be  re- 
sponsible. Do  you  be  gone  after  putting  the 
Count  into  the  closhet;  and  leave  the  shins 
wid  themselves.  I  will  come  with  the  Count 
to  instruct  you  in  your  chamber. 

Gip.  Well,  doctor,  your  religion  is  so 
pure!  Methinks  I'm  so  easy  after  an  abso- 
lution, and  can  sin  afresh  with  so  much 
security,  that  I'm  resolved  to  die  a  martyr 
to't.  Here's  the  key  of  the  garden  door, 
come  in  the  back  way  when  'tis  late,  I'll  be 
ready  to  receive  you;  but  don't  so  much  as 
whisper,  only  take  hold  of  my  hand;  I'll  lead 
you,  and  do  you  lead  the  Count,  and  follow 
me.  [Exeunt. 

Scrub.  [Coming  forward.]  What  witchcraft 
now  have  these  two  imps  of  the  devil  been 
a-hatching  here?  "There's  twenty  Lewi- 
dores"; I  heard  that,  and  saw  the  purse. — 
But  I  must  give  room  to  my  betters. 

[Exit. 

Re-enter  AIMWELL,  leading  DORINDA,  and 
making  love  in  dumb  show;  MRS.  SULLEN 
and  ARCHER. 

Mrs.  Sul.  [To  ARCHER.]  Pray,  sir,  how 
d'ye  like  that  piece? 

Arch.  Oh,  'tis  Leda!  You  find,  madam, 
how  Jupiter  comes  disguised  to  make 
love 

Mrs.  Sul.  But  what  think  you  there  of 
Alexander's  battles  ? 

Arch.  We  only  want  a  Le  Brun,  madam, 
to  draw  greater  battles,  and  a  greater  gen- 
eral of  our  own.  The  Danube,  madam,  would 
make  a  greater  figure  in  a  picture  than  the 
Granicus;  and  we  have  our  Kami  Hies  to 
match  their  Arbela. 

Mrs.  Sul.  Pray,  sir,  what  head  is  that 
in  the  corner  there? 

Arch.  O  madam,  'tis  poor  Ovid  in  his 
exile. 

Mrs.  Sul.     What  was  he  banished  for? 

Arch.  His  ambitious  love,  madam.— [Sow- 
ing.] His  misfortune  touches  me. 

Mrs.  Sul.  Was  he  successful  in  his 
amours  ? 

Arch.  There  he  has  left  us  in  the  dark. 
He  was  too  much  a  gentleman  to  tell. 

Mrs.   Sul.     If  he   were    secret,   I   pity   him. 

Arch.  And  if  he  were  successful,  I  envy 
him. 


182 


THE  BEAUX'  STRATAGEM 


ACT  IV,  Sc.  I. 


Mrs.  Sul.  How  d'ye  like  that  Venus  over 
the  chimney  ? 

Arch.  Venus!  I  protest,  madam,  I  took 
it  for  your  picture;  but  now  I  look  again, 
'tis  not  handsome  enough. 

Mrs.  Sul.  Oh,  what  a  charm  is  flattery! 
If  you  would  see  my  picture,  there  it  is  over 
that  cabinet.  How  d'ye  like  it? 

Arch.  I  must  admire  anything,  madam, 
that  has  the  least  resemblance  of  you.  But, 
methinks,  madam — [He  looks  at  the  picture 
and  MRS.  SULLEN  three  or  four  times,  by 
turns.}  Pray,  madam,  who  drew  it? 

Mrs.   Sul.     A  famous  hand,  sir. 

[Here  AIMWELL  and  DORINDA  go   off. 

Arch.  A  famous  hand,  madam! — Your 
eyes,  indeed,  are  featured  there;  but  where's 
the  sparking  moisture,  shining  fluid,  in 
which  they  swim?  The  picture,  indeed,  has 
your  dimples;  but  where's  the  swarm  of 
killing  Cupids  that  should  ambush  there? 
The  lips  too  are  figured  out;  but  where's 
the  carnation  dew,  the  pouting  ripeness  that 
tempts  the  taste  in  the  original? 

Mrs.  Sul.  [Aside.}  Had  it  been  my  lot 
to  have  matched  with  such  a  man! 

Arch.  Your  breasts  too — presumptuous 
man!  what,  paint  Heaven  {—Apropos,  madam, 
in  the  very  next  picture  is  Salmoneus,  that 
was  struck  dead  with  lightning,  for  offer- 
ing to  imitate  Jove's  thunder;  I  hope  you 
served  the  painter  so,  madam? 

Mrs.  Sul.  Had  my  eyes  the  power  of 
thunder,  they  should  employ  their  lightning 
better. 

Arch.  There's  the  finest  bed  in  that 
room,  madam !  I  suppose  'tis  your  lady- 
ship's bedchamber.  i 

Mrs.   Sul.     And    what   then,   sir? 

Arch.  I  think  the  quilt  is  the  richest  that 
ever  I  saw.  I  can't  at  this  distance,  madam, 
distinguish  the  figures  of  the  embroidery; 
will  you  give  me  leave,  madam? 

[Goes    into    the    chamber. 

Mrs.  Sul.  [Aside.}  The  devil  take  his  im- 
pudence!— Sure,  if  I  gave  him  an  oppor- 
tunity, he  durst  not  offer  it?— I  have  a  great 
mind  to  try. — [Going  in,  returns.}  S'death, 
what  am  I  doing?— And  alone,  too! — Sister! 
sister!  [Runs  out. 

Arch.  [Coming  out.}  I'll  follow  her  close — 
For  where  a  Frenchman  durst  attempt  to 

storm, 

A   Briton  sure   may  well   the   work   perform. 

[Going. 

Re-enter   SCRUB. 

Scrub.     Martin!    brother    Martin! 

Arch.  O  brother  Scrub,  I  beg  your  par- 
don, I  was  not  a-going:  here's  a  guinea  my 
master  ordered  you. 

Scrub.  A  guinea!  hi!  hi!  hi!  a  guinea! 
eh— by  this  light  it  is  a  guinea!  But  I  sup- 


pose you  expect  one-and-twenty  shillings  in 
change  ? 

Arch.  Not  at  all;  I  have  another  for 
Gipsy. 

Scrub.  A  guinea  for  her!  Faggot  and 
fire  for  the  witch!  Sir,  give  me  that  guinea, 
and  I'll  discover  a  plot. 

Arch.     A  plot! 

Scrub.  Ay,  sir,  a  plot,  and  a  horrid  plot! 
First,  it  must  be  a  plot,  because  there's  a 
woman  in't:  secondly,  it  must  be  a  plot, 
because  there's  a  priest  in't:  thirdly,  it 
must  be  a  plot,  because  there's  French  gold 
in't:  and  fourthly,  it  must  be  a  plot,  because 
I  don't  know  what  to  make  on't. 

Arch.  Nor  anybody  else,  I'm  afraid, 
brother  Scrub. 

Scrub.  Truly,  I'm  afraid  so  too;  for  where 
there's  a  priest  and  a  woman,  there's  always 
a  mystery  and  a  riddle.  This  I  know,  that 
here  has  been  the  doctor  with  a  temptation 
in  one  hand  and  an  absolution  in  the  other, 
and  Gipsy  has  sold  herself  to  the  devil;  I 
saw  the  price  paid  down,  my  eyes  shall  take 
their  oath  on't. 

Arch.     And  is  all  this  bustle  about  Gipsy? 

Scrub.  That's  not  all;  I  could  hear  but 
a  word  here  and  there;  but  I  remember  they 
mentioned  a  Count,  a  closet,  a  back-door, 
and  a  key. 

Arch.  The  Count!— Did  you  hear  nothing 
of  Mrs.  Sullen? 

Scrub.  I  did  hear  some  word  that  sounded 
that  way;  but  whether  it  was  Sullen  or 
Dorinda,  I  could  not  distinguish. 

Arch.  You  have  told  this  matter  to  no- 
body, brother? 

Scrub.  Told!  no,  sir,  I  thank  you  for 
that;  I'm  resolved  never  to  speak  one  word 
pro  nor  con,  till  we  have  a  peace. 

Arch.  You're  i'  the  right,  brother  Scrub. 
Here's  a  treaty  afoot  between  the  Count 
and  the  lady:  the  priest  and  the  chamber- 
maid are  the  plenipotentiaries.  It  shall  go 
hard  but  I  find  a  way  to  be  included  in 
the  treaty. — Where's  the  doctor  now? 

Scrub.  He  and  Gipsy  are  this  moment  de- 
vouring my  lady's  marmalade  in  the  closet. 

Aim.      [From  without.}     Martin!  Martin! 

Arch.     I  come,  sir,  I  come. 

Scrub.  But  you  forget  the  other  guinea, 
Brother  Martin. 

Arch.     Here,   I   give   it   with   all   my   heart. 

Scrub.  And  I  take  it  with  all  my  soul. — 
[Exit  ARCHER.]  Ecod,  I'll  spoil  your  plotting, 
Mrs.  Gipsy!  and  if  you  should  set  the  cap- 
tain upon  me,  these  two  guineas  will  buy 
me  off.  [Exit. 

Re-enter  MRS.  SULLEN  and  DORINDA,   meeting. 

Mrs.    Sul.     Well,    sister! 

Dor.     And   well,   sister! 

Mrs.  Sul.     What's  become  of  my  lord? 


183 


ACT  IV,  Sc.  II. 


THE  BEAUX'  STRATAGEM 


Dor.     What's    become    of    his    servant? 

Mrs.  Sul.  Servant!  he's  a  prettier  fellow, 
and  a  finer  gentleman  by  fifty  degrees,  than 
his  master. 

Dor.  (X  my  conscience,  I  fancy  you  could 
beg  that  fellow  at  the  gallows-foot! 

Mrs.  Sul.  O'  my  conscience  I  could,  pro- 
vided I  could  put  a  friend  of  yours  in  his 


Dor.  You  desired  me,  sister,  to  leave  you, 
when  you  transgressed  the  bounds  of  honor. 

Mrs.  Sul.  Thou  dear  censorious  country 
girl!  what  dost  mean?  You  can't  think  of 
the  man  without  the  bedfellow,  I  find. 

Dor.  I  don't  find  anything  unnatural  in 
that  thought:  while  the  mind  is  conversant 
with  flesh  and  blood,  it  must  conform  to 
the  humors  of  the  company. 

Mrs.  Sul.  How  a  little  love  and  good 
company  improves  a  woman!  Why,  child, 
you  begin  to  live — you  never  spoke  before. 

Dor.  Because  I  was  never  spoke  to. — 
My  lord  has  told  me  that  I  have  more  wit 
and  beauty  than  any  of  my  sex;  and  truly 
I  begin  to  think  the  man  is  sincere. 

Mrs.  Sul.  You're  in  the  right,  Dorinda; 
pride  is  the  life  of  a  woman,  and  flattery  is 
our  daily  bread;  and  she's  a  fool  that  won't 
believe  a  man  there,  as  much  as  she  that  be- 
lieves him  in  anything  else.  But  I'll  lay 
you  a  guinea  that  I  had  finer  things  said  to 
me  than  you  had. 

Dor.  Done!  What  did  your  fellow  say 
to  ye? 

Mrs.  Sul.  My  fellow  took  the  picture  of 
Venus  for  mine. 

Dor.  But  my  lover  took  me  for  Venus 
herself. 

Mrs.  Sul.  Common  cant!  Had  my  spark 
called  me  a  Venus  directly,  I  should  have 
believed  him  a  footman  in  good  earnest. 

Dor.  But  my  lover  was  upon  his  knees 
to  me. 

Mrs.  Sul.  And  mine  was  upon  his  tip- 
toes to  me. 

Dor.     Mine   vowed    to    die    for   me. 

Mrs.  Sul.     Mine  swore  to  die  with  me. 

Dor.  Mine  spoke  the  softest  moving 
things. 

Mrs.  Sul.  Mine  had  his  moving  things 
too. 

Dor.  Mine  kissed  my  hand  ten  thousand 
times. 

Mrs.  Sul.  Mine  has  all  that  pleasure  to 
come. 

Dor.     Mine  offered  marriage. 

Mrs.  Sul.  O  Lard!  d'ye  call  that  a  moving 
thing? 

Dor.  The  sharpest  arrow  in  his  quiver, 
my  dear  sister!  Why,  my  ten  thousand 
pounds  may  lie  brooding  here  this  seven 
years,  and  hatch  nothing  at  last  but  some 
ill-natured  clown  like  yours.  Whereas,  if 
I  marry  my  Lord  Aimwell,  there  will  bf> 


title,  place,  and  precedence,  the  Park,  the 
play,  and  the  drawing-room,  splendor, 
equipage,  noise,  and  flambeaux.— Hey,  my 
Lady  Aimwell's  servants  there! — Lights,  lights 
to  the  stairs! — My  Lady  Aimwell's  coach  put 
forward! — Stand  by,  make  room  for  her  lady- 
ship!— Are  not  these  things  moving?— 
What!  melancholy  of  a  sudden? 

Mrs.  Sul.  Happy,  happy  sister!  your 
angel  has  been  watchful  for  your  happiness, 
whilst  mine  has  slept  regardless  of  his 
charge.  Long  smiling  years  of  circling  joys 
for  you,  but  not  one  hour  for  me!  [Weeps. 

Dor.  Come,  my  dear,  we'll  talk  of  some- 
thing else. 

Mrs.  Sul.  O  Dorinda!  I  own  myself  a 
woman,  full  of  my  sex,  a  gentle,  generous 
soul,  easy  and  yielding  to  soft  desires;  a 
spacious  heart,  where  love  and  all  his  train 
might  lodge.  And  must  the  fair  apartment 
of  my  breast  be  made  a  stable  for  a  brute 
to  lie  in? 

Dor.     Meaning    your   husband,    I    suppose? 

Mrs.  Sul.  Husband!  no;  even  husband  is 
too  soft  a  name  for  him.— But,  come,  I  ex- 
pect my  brother  here  to-night  or  to-morrow; 
he  was  abroad  when  my  father  married  me; 
perhaps  he'll  find  a  way  to  make  me  easy. 

Dor.  Will  you  promise  not  to  make  your- 
self easy  in  the  meantime  with  my  lord's 
friend? 

Mrs.  Sul.  You  mistake  me,  sister.  It 
happens  with  us  as  among  the  men,  the 
greatest  talkers  are  the  greatest  cowards? 
and  there's  a  reason  for  it;  those  spirits 
evaporate  in  prattle,  which  might  do  more 
mischief  if  they  took  another  course. — 
Though,  to  confess  the  truth,  I  do  love  that 
fellow; — and  if  I  met  him  dressed  as  he 
should  be,  and  I  undressed  as  I  should  be — 
look'ee,  sister,  I  have  no  supernatural  gifts 
—I  can't  swear  I  could  resist  the  temptation; 
though  I  can  safely  promise  to  avoid  it;  and 
that's  as  much  as  the  best  of  us  can  do. 

[Exeunt. 

SCENE    II 

A   Room  in  BONIFACE'S  Inn. 
Enter  AIMWELL  and   ARCHER   laughing. 

Arch.  And  the  awkward  kindness  of  the 
good  motherly  old  gentlewoman 

Aim.  And  the  coming  easiness  of  the 
young  one — 'Sdeath,  'tis  pity  to  deceive 
her! 

Arch.  Nay,  if  you  adhere  to  these  prin- 
ciples, stop  where  you  are. 

Aim.  I  can't  stop;  for  I  love  her  to  dis- 
traction. 

Arch.  'Sdeath,  if  you  love  her  a  hair's- 
breath  beyond  discretion,  you  must  go  no 
further. 

Aim.     Well,    well,    anything    to    deliver    us 


184 


THE  BEAUX'  STRATAGEM 


ACT  IV,  Sc.  II. 


from  sauntering  away  our  idle  evenings  at 
White's,  Tom's,  or  Will's,  and  be  stinted  to 
bare  looking  at  our  old  acquaintance,  the 
cards;  because  our  impotent  pockets  can't 
afford  us  a  guinea  for  the  mercenary  drabs. 

Arch.  Or  be  obliged  to  some  purse-proud 
coxcomb  for  a  scandalous  bottle,  where  we 
must  not  pretend  to  our  share  of  the  dis- 
course, because  we  can't  pay  our  club  o"  th' 
reckoning.— Damn  it,  I  had  rather  sponge 
upon  Morris,  and  sup  upon  a  dish  of  bohea 
scored  behind  the  door! 

Aim.  And  there  expose  our  want  of  sense 
by  talking  criticisms,  as  we  should  our  want 
of  money  by  railing  at  the  government. 

Arch.  Or  be  obliged  to  sneak  into  the 
side-box,  and  between  both  houses  steal  two 
acts  of  a  play,  and  because  we  han't  money 
to  see  the  other  three,  we  come  away  dis- 
contented, and  damn  the  whole  five. 

Aim.  And  ten  thousand  such  rascally 
tricks — had  we  outlived  our  fortunes  among 
our  acquaintance. — But  now 

Arch.  Ay,  now  is  the  time  to  prevent  all 
this:— strike  while  the  iron  is  hot. — This 
priest  is  the  luckiest  part  of  our  adventure; 
he  shall  marry  you,  and  pimp  for  me. 

Aim.  But  I  should  not  like  a  woman 
that  can  be  so  fond  of  a  Frenchman. 

Arch.  Alas,  sir!  Necessity  has  no  law. 
The  lady  may  be  in  distress;  perhaps  she 
has  a  confounded  husband,  and  her  revenge 
may  carry  her  farther  than  her  love.  Egad, 
I  have  so  good  an  opinion  of  her,  and  of 
myself,  that  I  begin  to  fancy  strange  things: 
and  we  must  say  this  for  the  honor  of  our 
women,  and  indeed  of  ourselves,  that  they 
do  stick  to  their  men  as  they  do  to  their 
Magna  Charta.  If  the  plot  lies  as  I  suspect, 
I  must  put  on  the  gentleman. — But  here 
comes  the  doctor — I  shall  be  ready.  [Exit. 

Enter    FOIGARD. 

Foi.     Sauve  you,  noble  friend. 

Aim.  O  sir,  your  servant!  Pray,  doctor, 
may  I  crave  your  name? 

Foi.  Fat  naam  is  upon  me?  My  naam  is 
Foigard,  joy. 

Aim.  Foigard!  a  very  good  name  for  a 
clergyman.  Pray,  Doctor  Foigard,  were  you 


ever  in  Ireland? 

Ireland!  no,  joy. 


Fat  sort  of  plaace 


is  dat  saam  Ireland?  Dey  say  de  people 
are  catched  dere  when  dey  are  young. 

Aim.  And  some  of  'em  when  they  are 
old:— as  for  example. — [Takes  FOIGARD  by  the 
shoulder.']  Sir,  I  arrest  you  as  a  traitor 
against  the  government;  you're  a  subject  of 
England,  and  this  morning  showed  me  a 
commission,  by  which  you  served  as  chap- 
Iain  in  the  French  army.  This  is  death  by 
our  law,  and  your  reverence  must  hang  for 
it. 

Fni.     Upon   my   shout,   noble   friend,   dis   is 


strange  news  you  tell  me !  Fader  Foigard 
a  subject  of  England!  de  son  of  a  burgo- 
master of  Brussels,  a  subject  of  England! 


ubooboc 
Aim. 


The  son  of  a  bog-trotter  in  Ireland! 


Sir,  your  tongue  will  condemn  you  before 
any  bench  in  the  kingdom. 

Foi.  And  is  my  tongue  all  your  evidensh, 
joy? 

Aim.     That's  enough. 

Foi.  No,  no,  joy,  for  I  vill  never  spake 
English  no  more. 

Aim.  Sir,  I  have  other  evidence. — Here, 
Martin ! 

Re-enter  ARCHER. 

You   know    this   fellow? 

Arch.  [In  a  brogue.}  Saave  you,  my  dear 
cussen,  how  does  your  health? 

Foi.  [Aside.]  Ah !  upon  my  shoul  dere  is 
my  countryman,  and  his  brogue  will  hang 
mine. — [To  ARCHER.]  Mynheer,  Ick  wet  neat 
•watt  hey  zacht,  Ick  universton  ewe  neat, 
sacramant! 

Aim.  Altering  your  language  won't  do, 
sir;  this  fellow  knows  your  person,  and  will 
swear  to  your  face. 

Foi.  Faash!  fey,  is  dere  a  brogue  upon 
my  faash  too  ? 

Arch.  Upon  my  soulvation  dere  ish,  Joy! 
—But  cussen  Mackshane,  vil  you  not  put  a 
remembrance  upon  me  ? 

Foi.  [Aside.'}  Mackshane!  by  St.  Patrick, 
dat  ish  my  naam  shure  enough. 

Aim.  [Aside  to  ARCHER.]  I  fancy,  Archer, 
you  have  it.  . 

Foi.  The  devil  hang  you,  joy!  by  fat  ac- 
quaintance are  you  my  cussen? 

Arch.  Oh,  de  devil  hang  yourshelf,  joy! 
you  know  we  were  little  boys  togeder  upon 
de  school,  and  your  foster-moder's  son  was 
married  upon  my  nurse's  chister,  joy,  and 
so  we  are  Irish  cussens. 

Foi.  De  devil  taake  de  relation!  Vel, 
joy,  and  fat  school  was  it? 

Arch.     I     tinks     it     vas — aay — 'twas     Tip- 


perary. 

Foi. 
Aim. 


No,  no,  joy;  it  vas  Kilkenny. 
That's    enough    for    us — self-confes- 


sion.— Come,  sir,  we  must  deliver  you  into 
the  hands  of  the  next  magistrate. 

Arch.  He  sends  you  to  jail,  you're  tried 
next  assizes,  and  away  you  go  swing  into 
purgatory. 

Foi.     And  is  it  so  wid   you,   cussen? 

Arch.  It  vil  be  sho  wid  you,  cussen,  if 
you  don't  immediately  confess  the  secret 
between  you  and  Mrs.  Gipsy.  Look'ee,  sir, 
the  gallows  or  the  secret,  take  your  choice. 

Foi.  The  gallows !  upon  my  shoul  I  hate 
that  saam  gallow,  for  it  is  a  diseash  dat 
is  fatal  to  our  family.  Vel,  den,  dere  is 
nothing,  shentlemens,  but  Mrs.  Shullen 
would  spaak  wid  the  Count  in  her  chamber 


185 


ACT  V,  Sc.  I. 


THE  BEAUX'  STRATAGEM 


at  midnight,  and  dere  is  no  haarm,  joy,  for 
I  am  to  conduct  the  Count  to  the  plash, 
myshelf. 

Arch.  As  I  guessed. — Have  you  communi- 
cated the  matter  to  the  Count? 

Foi.     I  have  not  sheen  him  since. 

Arch.  Right  again!  Why  then,  doctor— 
you  shall  conduct  me  to  the  lady  instead 
of  the  Count. 

Foi.  Fat,  my  cussen  to  the  lady!  upon 
my  shoul,  gra,  dat  is  too  much  upon  the 


brogue. 

Arch.     Come,    come, 


doctor;    consider    we 


have  got  a  rope  about  your  neck,  and  if  you 
offer  to  squeak,  we'll  stop  your  windpipe, 
most  certainly.  We  shall  have  another  job 
for  you  in  a  day  or  two,  I  hope. 

Aim.  Here's  company  coming  this  way; 
let's  into  my  chamber,  and  there  concert 
our  affairs  farther. 

Arch.  Come,  my  dear  cussen,  come  along. 

[Exeunt. 

Enter  BONIFACE,   HOUNSLOW,   and  BAGSHOT   at 
one   door,    GIBBET   at   the   opposite. 

Gib.  Well,  gentlemen,  'tis  a  fine  night 
for  our  enterprise. 

Houn.     Dark   as   hell. 

Bag.  And  blows  like  the  devil;  our  land- 
lord here  has  showed  us  the  window  where 


in,    and    tells    us    the    plate 
wainscot     cupboard    in    the 


we  must  break 
stands  in  the 
parlor. 

Bon.  Ay,  ay,  Mr.  Bagshot,  as  the  saying 
is,  knives  and  forks,  and  cups  and  cans, 
and  tumblers  and  tankards.  There's  one 
tankard,  as  the  saying  is,  that's  near  upon 
as  big  as  me;  it  was  a  present  to  the  squire 
from  his  godmother,  and  smells  of  nutmeg 
and  toast  like  an  East-India  ship. 

Houn.  Then  you  say  we  must  divide  at 
the  stairhead? 

Bon.  Yes,  Mr.  Hounslow,  as  the  saying 
is.  At  one  end  of  that  gallery  lies  my 
Lady  Bountiful  and  her  daughter,  and  at 
the  other  Mrs.  Sullen.  As  for  the  squire 

Gib.  He's  safe  enough,  I  have  fairly  en- 
tered him,  and  he's  more  than  half  seas 
over  already.  But  such  a  parcel  of  scoun- 
drels are  got  about  him  now,  that,  egad,  I 
was  ashamed  to  be  seen  in  their  company. 

Bon.  'Tis  now  twelve,  as  the  saying  is— 
gentlemen,  you  must  set  out  at  one. 

Gib.  Hounslow,  do  you  and  Bagshot  see 
our  arms  fixed,  and  I'll  come  to  you  pres- 
ently. 

Houn.,  Bag.     We  will.  [Exeunt. 

Gib.  Well,  my  dear  Bonny,  you  assure 
me  that  Scrub  is  a  coward? 

Bon.  A  chicken,  as  the  saying  is.  You'll 
have  no  creature  to  deal  with  but  the  ladies. 

Gib.  And  I  can  assure  you,  friend,  there's 
a  great  deal  of  address  and  good  manners  in 


robbing  a  lady;   I  am  the  most  a  gentleman 


that  way  that  ever  travelled  the  road. — But, 
my  dear  Bonny,  this  prize  will  be  a  galleon, 
a  Vigo  business.— I  warrant  you  we  shall 
bring  off  three  or  four  thousand  pounds. 

Bon.  In  plate,  jewels,  and  money,  as  the 
saying  is,  you  may. 

Gib.  Why  then,  Tyburn,  I  defy  thee! 
I'll  get  up  to  town,  sell  off  my  horse  and 
arms,  buy  myself  some  pretty  employment 
in  the  household,  and  be  as  snug  and  as 
honest  as  any  courtier  of  'em  all. 

Bon.  And  what  think  you  then  of  my 
daughter  Cherry  for  a  wife? 

Gib.  Loak'ee,  my  dear  Bonny — Cherry  is 
the  Goddess  I  adore,  as  the  song  goes;  but 
it  is  a  maxim,  that  man  and  wife  should 
never  have  it  in  their  power  to  hang  one 
another;  for  if  they  should,  the  Lord  have 


mercy   on   'em   both! 


[Exeunt. 


ACT   V 

SCENE    I 

A  Room  in  BONIFACE'S  Inn. 
Knocking  without,   enter  BONIFACE. 

Bon.  Coming!  Coming!— A  coach  and  six 
foaming  horses  at  this  time  o'night!  some 
great  man,  as  the  saying  is,  for  he  scorns 
to  travel  with  other  people. 

Enter    SIR    CHARLES    FREEMAN. 

Sir  Chas.  What,  fellow!  a  public  house, 
and  abed  when  other  people  sleep? 

Bon.     Sir,    I    an't    abed,    as    the    saying    is. 

Sir  Chas.  Is  Mr.  Sullen's  family  abed, 
think'ee? 

Bon.  All  but  the  squire  himself,  sir,  as 
the  saying  is;  he's  in  the  house. 

Sir  Chas.     What  company  has   he? 

Bon.  Why,  sir,  there's  the  constable,  Mr. 
Gage  the  exciseman,  the  hunch-backed  bar- 
ber, and  two  or  three  other  gentlemen. 

Sir  Chas.  [Aside.'}  I  find  my  sister's  let- 
ters gave  me  the  true  picture  of  her  spouse. 

Enter    SULLEN,    drunk. 

Bon.     Sir,   here's   the   squire. 

Squire  Sul.  The  puppies  left  me  asleep. — 
Sir! 

Sir  Chas.     Well,   sir. 

Squire  Sul.  Sir,  I  am  an  unfortunate  man 
— I  have  three  thousand  pounds  a  year,  and 
I  can't  get  a  man  to  drink  a  cup  of  ale  with 
me. 

Sir    Chas.     That's    very    hard. 

Squire  Sul.  Ay,  sir;  and  unless  you  have 
pity  upon  me,  and  smoke  one  pipe  with  me, 
I  must  e'en  go  home  to  my  wife,  and  I  had 
rather  go  to  the  devil  by  half. 

Sir  Chas.  But  I  presume,  sir,  you  won't 
see  your  wife  to-night;  she'll  be  gone  to 


186 


THE  BEAUX'  STRATAGEM 


ACT  V,  So.  II. 


bed.  You  don't  use  to  lie  with  your  wife  in 
that  pickle  ? 

Squire  Sul.  What!  not  lie  with  my  wife! 
Why,  sir,  do  you  take  me  for  an  atheist  or 
a  rake  ? 

Sir  Chas.  If  you  hate  her,  sir,  I  think  you 
had  better  lie  from  her. 

Squire  Sul.  I  think  so  too,  friend.  But 
I'm  a  Justice  of  peace,  and  must  do  nothing 
against  the  law. 

Sir  Chas.  Law!  as  I  take  it,  Mr.  Justice, 
nobody  observes  law  for  law's  sake,  only 
for  the  good  of  those  for  whom  it  was  made. 

Squire  Sul.  But,  if  the  law  orders  me  to 
send  you  to  jail,  you  must  lie  there,  my 
friend. 

Sir  Chas.  Not  unless  I  commit  a  crime 
to  deserve  it. 

Squire  Sul.  A  crime?  'oons,  an't  I  mar- 
ried? 

Sir  Chas.  Nay,  sir,  if  you  call  a  marriage 
a  crime,  you  must  disown  it  for  a  law. 

Squire  Sul.  Eh!  I  must  be  acquainted 
with  you,  sir.— But,  sir,  I  should  be  very 
glad. to  know  the  truth  of  this  matter. 

Sir  Chas.  Truth,  sir,  is  a  profound  sea, 
and  few  there  be  that  dare  wade  deep 
enough  to  find  out  the  bottom  on't.  Be- 
sides, sir,  I'm  afraid  the  line  of  your  under- 
standing mayn't  be  long  enough. 

Squire  Sul.  Look'ee,  sir,  I  have  nothing 
to  say  to  your  sea  of  truth,  but,  if  a  good 
parcel  of  land  can  entitle  a  man  to  a  little 
truth,  I  have  much  as  any  he  in  the  country. 

Bon.  I  never  heard  your  worship,  as  the 
saying  is,  talk  so  much  before. 

Squire  Sul.  Because  I  never  met  with  a 
man  that  I  liked  before. 

Bon.  Pray,  sir,  as  the  saying  is,  let  me 
ask  you  one  question:  are  not  man  and  wife 
one  flesh? 

Sir  Chas.  You  and  your  wife,  Mr.  Guts, 
may  be  one  flesh,  because  ye  are  nothing 
else;  but  rational  creatures  have  minds  that 
must  be  united. 

Squire  Sul.     Minds! 

Sir  Chas.  Ay,  minds,  sir;  don't  you  think 
that  the  mind  takes  place  of  the  body? 

Squire  Sul.     In  some  people. 

Sir  Chas.  Then  the  interest  of  the  master 
must  be  consulted  before  that  of  his  servant. 

Squire  Sul.  Sir,  you  shall  dine  with  me 
to-morrow! — 'Oons,  I  always  thought  that  we 
were  naturally  one. 

Sir  Chas.  Sir,  I  know  that  my  two  hands 
are  naturally  one,  because  they  love  one 
another,  kiss  one  another,  help  one  another 
in  all  the  actions  of  life;  but  I  could  not  say 
so  much  if  they  were  always  at  cuffs. 

Squire  Sul.  Then  'tis  plain  that  we  are 
two. 

Sir  Chas.  Why  don't  you  part  with  her, 
sir? 

Squire   Sul.     Will    you    take    her,   sir? 


Sir  Chas.     With  all  my  heart. 

Squire  Sul.  You  shall  have  her  to-mor- 
row morning,  and  a  venison-pasty  into  the 
bargain. 

Sir  Chas.  You'll  let  me  have  her  fortune 
too? 

Squire  Sul.  Fortune!  why,  sir,  I  have  no 
quarrel  at  her  fortune:  I  only  hate  the 
woman,  sir,  and  none  but  the  woman  shall 
go. 

Sir  Chas.     But  her  fortune,   sir 

Squire    Sul.     Can   you   play   at   whisk,    sir? 

Sir  Chas.     No,  truly,   sir. 

Squire  Sul.     Nor  at  all-fours? 

Sir  Chas.     Neither. 

Squire  Sul.  [Aside.'].  'Oons!  where  was 
this  man  bred? — [Aloud.~\  Burn  me,  sir!  I 
can't  go  home,  'tis  but  two  a  clock. 

Sir  Chas.  For  half  an  hour,  sir,  if  you 
please;  but  you  must  consider  'tis  late. 

Squire  Sul.  Late !  that's  the  reason  I 
can't  go  to  bed. — Come,  sir!  [Exeunt. 

Enter  CHERRY,  runs  across  the  stage,  and 
knocks  at  AIMWELL'S  chamber  door.  Enter 
AIMWELL  in  his  nightcap  and  gown. 

Aim.  WMat's  the  matter?  You  tremble, 
child;  you're  frighted. 

Cher.  No  wonder,  sir — But,  in  short,  sir, 
this  very  minute  a  gang  of  rogues  are  gone 
to  rob  my  Lady  Bountiful's  house. 

Aim.     How! 

Cher.  I  dogged  'em  to  the  very  door,  and 
left  'em  breaking  in. 

.-tin  i.  Have  you  alarmed  anybody  else 
with  the  news  ? 

Cher.  No,  no,  sir,  I  wanted  to  have  dis- 
covered the  whole  plot,  and  twenty  other 
things,  to  your  man  Martin;  but  I  have 
searched  the  whole  house,  and  can't  find  him ! 
Where  is  he? 

Aim.  No  matter,  child;  will  you  guide 
me  immediately  to  the  house? 

Cher.  With  all  my  heart,  sir;  my  Lady 
Bountiful  is  my  godmother,  and  I  love  Mrs. 
Dorinda  so  well 

Aim.  Dorinda!  the  name  inspires  me,  the 
glory  and  the  danger  shall  be  all  my  own. — 
Come,  my  life,  let  me  but  get  my  sword. 

[Exeunt. 

SCENE    II 
A    Bedchamber  in    LADY    BOUNTIFUL'S    House. 

Enter   MRS.    SULLEN    and   DORINDA   undressed; 
a  table  and  lights. 

Dor.  'Tis  very  late,  sister,  no  news  of 

your  spouse  yet? 

Mrs.  Sul.  No,  I'm  condemned  to  be  alone 

till  towards  four,  and  then  perhaps  I  may 

be  executed  with  his  company. 

Dor.  Well,  my  dear,  I'll  leave  you  to  your 

rest.  You'll  go  directly  to  bed,  I  suppose? 


187 


ACT  V,  Sc.  II. 


THE  BEAUX'  STRATAGEM 


Mrs.  Sul.  I  don't  know  what  to  do. — 
Heigh-ho! 

Dor.     That's    a    desiring    sigh,    sister. 

Mrs.  Sul.  This  is  a  languishing  hour, 
•ister. 

Dor.  And  might  prove  a  critical  minute 
if  the  pretty  fellow  were  here. 

Mrs.  Sul.  Here!  what,  in  my  bedchamber 
at  two  o'clock  o'  th*  morning,  I  undressed, 
the  family  asleep,  my  hated  husband  abroad, 
and  my  lovely  fellow  at  my  feet! — O  gad, 
•ister! 

Dor.  Thoughts  are  free,  sister,  and  them 
I  allow  you. — So,  my  dear,  good  night. 

Mrs.  Sul.  A  good  rest  to  my  dear  Do- 
rinda!—  [Ex-it  DORINDA.]  Thoughts  free!  are 
they  so?  Why,  then,  suppose  him  here, 
dressed  like  a  youthful,  gay,  and  burning 
bridegroom, 

[Here  ARCHER  steals  out  of  the  closet. 
with  tongue  enchanting,  eyes  bewitching, 
knees  imploring. — [Turns  a  little  on  one  side 
and  sees  ARCHER  in  the  posture  she  describes.} 
— Ah! — [Shrieks,  and  runs  to  the  other  side  of 
the  stage.]  Have  my  thoughts  raised  a 
spirit? — What  are  you,  sir,  a  man  or  a 
devil? 

Arch.     A  man,  a  man,  madam.          [Rising. 

Mrs.   Sul.     How   shall   I   be   sure  of  it? 

Arch.  Madam,  I'll  give  you  demonstration 
this  minute.  [Takes  her  hand. 

Mrs.  Sul.  What,  sir!  do  you  intend  to 
be  rude? 

Arch.     Yes,  madam,  if  you  please. 

Mrs.  Sul.  In  the  name  of  wonder,  whence 
came  yc  ? 

Arch.  From  the  skies,  madam — I'm  a 
Jupiter  in  love,  and  you  shall  be  my 
Alcmena. 

Mrs.    Sul.     How    came    you    in? 

Arch.  I  flew  in  at  the  window,  madam; 
your  cousin  Cupid  lent  me  his  wings,  and 
your  sister  Venus  opened  the  casement. 

Mrs.  Sul.  I'm  struck  dumb  with  admira- 
tion! 

Arch.     And    I — with    wonder! 

[Looks   passionately    at   her. 

Mrs.   Sul.     What  will  become  of   me? 

Arch.     How       beautiful      she      looks ! — The 
teeming  jolly   Spring  smiles   in  her  blooming 
face,     and,     when     she     was     conceived,     her 
mother   smelt  to  roses,   looked  on  lilies — 
Lilies     unfold     their    white,     their     fragrant 

charms, 

When    the   warm   sun    thus   darts   into    their 
arms.  [Runs    to     her. 

Mrs.   Sul.     Ah!  [Shrieks. 

Arch.  'Oons,  madam,  what  d'ye  mean? 
you'll  raise  the  house. 

Mrs.  Sul.  Sir,  I'll  wake  the  dead  before 
I  bear  this! — What!  approach  me  with  the 
freedoms  of  a  keeper!  I'm  glad  on't,  your 
impudence  has  cured  me. 

Arch.     If   this    be    impudence — [Kneels.]      I 


leave  to  your  partial  self;  no  panting  pilgrim, 
after  a  tedious,  painful  voyage,  e'er  bowed 
before  his  saint  with  more  devotion. 

Mrs.  Sul.  [Aside.]  Now,  now,  I'm  ruined 
if  he  kneels!—  [Aloud.]  Rise,  thou  prostrate 
engineer,  not  all  thy  undermining  skill  shall 
reach  my  heart.— Rise,  and  know  I  am  a 
woman  without  my  sex;  I  can  love  to  all 
the  tenderness  of  wishes,  sighs,  and  tears 
—but  go  no  farther.— Still,  to  convince  you 
that  I'm  more  than  woman,  I  can  speak  my 
frailty,  confess  my  weakness  even  for  you, 
but 

Arch.     For  me!     [Going  to  lay  hold  on  her. 

Mrs.  Sul.  Hold,  sir!  build  not  upon  that; 
for  my  most  mortal  hatred  follows  if  you 
disobey  what  I  command  you  now. — Leave 
me  this  minute. — [Aside.]  If  he  denies,  I'm 
lost. 

Arch.     Then    you'll   promise 

Mrs.   Sul.     Anything   another   time. 

Arch.     When    shall    I   come? 

Mrs.  Sul.     To-morrow— when  you  will. 

Arch.     Your  lips  must  seal  the  promise. 

Mrs.  Sul.     Psha! 

Arch.  They  must!  they  must!  [Kisses 
her.]—  Raptures  and  paradise !— And  why  not 
now,  my  angel?  the  time,  the  place,  silence, 
and  secrecy,  all  conspire.  And  the  now  con- 
scious stars  have  preordained  this  moment 
for  my  happiness.  [Takes  her  in  his  arms. 

Mrs.  Sul.     You  will  not!  cannot,  sure! 

Arch.  If  the  sun  rides  fast,  and  dis- 
appoints not  mortals  of  to-morrow's  dawn, 
this  night  shall  crown  my  joys. 

Mrs.   Sul.     My   sex's  pride  assist  me! 

Arch.     My    sex's    strength    help    me! 

Mrs.  Sul.     You  shall  kill  me  first! 

Arch.     I'll   die    with   you. 

[Carrying  her  off. 

Mrs.    Sul.     Thieves!   thieves!   murder! 

Enter    SCRUB   in    his   breeches,    and    one   shoe. 

Scrub.     Thieves!  thieves!  murder!  popery! 

Arch.  Ha!  the  very  timorous  stag  will 
kill  in  rutting  time. 

[Draws,  and  offers  to  stab  SCRUB. 

Scrub.  [Kneeling.]  O  pray,  sir,  spare  all 
I  have,  and  take  my  life! 

Mrs.  Sul.  [Holding  ARCHER'S  hand.]  What 
does  the  fellow  mean? 

Scrub.  O  madam,  down  upon  your  knees, 
your  marrow-bones !— he's  one  of  'em. 

Arch.     Of  whom? 

Scrub.  One  of  the  rogues — I  beg  your 
pardon,  one  of  the  honest  gentlemen  that 
just  now  are  broke  into  the  house. 

Arch.     How! 

Mrs.  Sul.  I  hope  you  did  not  come  to 
rob  me? 

Arch.  Indeed  I  did,  madam,  but  I  would 
have  taken  nothing  but  what  you  might  ha' 
spared;  but'  your  crying  "  Thieves "  has 


188 


THE  BEAUX'  STRATAGEM 


ACT  V,  Sc.  II. 


•waked    this    dreaming   fool,   and   so   he    takes 
'em    for    granted. 

Scrub.  Granted!  'tis  granted,  sir;  take 
all  we  have. 

Mrs.  Sul.  The  fellow  looks  as  if  he  were 
broke  out  of  Bedlam. 

Scrub.  'Oons,  madam,  they're  broke  into 
the  house  with  fire  and  sword!  I  saw  them, 
heard  them;  they'll  be  here  this  minute. 

Arch.     What,   thieves! 

Scrub.     Under   favor,    sir,    I    think    so. 

Mrs.  Sul.     What  shall  we  do,  sir? 

Arch.  Madam,  I  wish  your  ladyship  a 
good  night. 

Mrs.  Sul.     Will  you  leave  me? 

Arch.  Leave  you!  Lord,  madam,  did  not 
you  command  me  to  be  gone  just  now,  upon 
pain  of  your  immortal  hatred? 

Mrs.   Sul.     Nay,  but  pray,  sir 

[Takes  hold  of  him. 

Arch.  Ha!  ha!  ha!  now  comes  my  turn 
to  be  ravished. — You  see  now,  madam,  you 
must  use  men  one  way  or  other;  but  take 
this  by  the  way,  good  madam,  that  none 
but  a  fool  will  give  you  the  benefit  of  his 
courage,  unless  you'll  take  his  love  along 
with  it. — How  are  they  armed,  friend? 

Scrub.     With  sword  and  pistol,  sir. 

Arch.  Hush! — I  see  a  dark  lantern  coming 
through  the  gallery. — Madam,  be  assured  I 
will  protect  you,  or  lose  my  life. 

Mrs.  Sul.  Your  life !  no,  sir,  they  can  rob  me 
of  nothing  that  I  value  half  so  much;  there- 
fore now,  sir,  let  me  entreat  you  to  be  gone. 

Arch.  No,  madam,  I'll  consult  my  own 
safety  for  the  sake  of  yours;  I'll  work  by 
stratagem.  Have  you  courage  enough  to 
stand  the  appearance  of  'em? 

Mrs.  Sul.  Yes,  yes,  since  I  have  scaped 
your  hands,  I  can  face  anything. 

Arch.  Come  hither,  brother  Scrub!  don't 
you  know  me? 

Scrub.  Eh,  my  dear  brother,  let  me  kiss 
thee.  [Kisses  ARCHER. 

Arch.     This    way— here 

[ARCHER  and   SCRUB  hide  behind  the  bed. 

Enter  GIBBET,  with  a  dark  lantern  in  one  hand, 
and   a    pistol   in    the    other. 

Gib.  Ay,  ay,  this  is  the  chamber,  and  the 
lady  alone. 

Mrs.  Sul.  Who  are  you,  sir?  what  would 
you  have?  d'ye  come  to  rob  me? 

Gib.  Rob  you!  alack  a  day,  madam,  I'm 
only  a  younger  brother,  madam;  and  so, 
madam,  if  you  make  a  noise,  I'll  shoot  you 
through  the  head;  but  don't  be  afraid, 
madam. — [Laying  his  lantern  and  pistol  upon 
the  table.]  These  rings,  madam;  don't  be 
concerned,  madam,  I  have  a  profound  re- 
spect for  you,  madam;  your  keys,  madam; 
don't  be  frighted,  madam,  I'm  the  most  of 
a  gentleman. — [Searching  her  pockets.]  This 
necklace,  madam;  I  never  was  rude  to  any 


lady;— I    have    a    veneration— for    this    neck- 
lace  

[Here  ARCHER  having  come  round,  and 
seised  the  pistol,  takes  GIBBET  by  the 
collar,  trips  up  his  heels,  and  claps 
the  pistol  to  his  breast. 

Arch.  Hold,  profane  villain,  and  take  the 
reward  of  thy  sacrilege! 

Gib.  Oh!  pray,  sir,  don't  kill  me;  I  an't 
prepared. 

Arch.     How  many   is  there  of  'em,   Scrub? 

Scrub.     Five-and-forty,    sir. 

Arch.  Then  I  must  kill  the  villain,  to 
have  him  out  of  the  way. 

Gib.  Hold,  hold,  sir,  we  are  but  three, 
upon  my  honor. 

.//•(•/;.  Scrub,  will  you  undertake  to  secure 
him? 

Scrub.     Not   I,  sir;   kill  him,   kill  him! 

Arch.  Run  to  Gipsy's  chamber,  there 
you'll  find  the  doctor;  bring  him  hither 
presently. — [Exit  SCRUB,  running.]  Come, 
rogue,  if  you  have  a  short  prayer,  say  it. 

Gib.  Sir,  I  have  no  prayer  at  all;  the 
government  has  provided  a  chaplain  to  say 
prayers  for  us  on  these  occasions. 

Mrs.  Sul.  Pray,  sir,  don't  kill  him:  you. 
fright  me  as  much  as  him. 

Arch.  The  dog  shall  die,  madam,  for  being 
the  occasion  of  my  disappointment. — Sirrah, 
this  moment  is  your  last. 

(/;/'.  Sir,  I'll  give  you  two  hundred  pounds 
to  spare  my  life. 

Arch.     Have  you  no  more,  rascal? 

Gib.  Yes,  sir,  I  can  command  four  hun- 
dred, but  I  must  reserve  two  of  'em  to  save 
my  life  at  the  sessions. 

Re-enter   SCRUB    with    FOIGARD. 

Arch.  Here,  doctor,  I  suppose  Scrub  and 
you  between  you  may  manage  him.  Lay 
hold  of  him,  doctor. 

[FOIGARD   lays    hold    of   GIBBET. 

Gib.  What!  turned  over  to  the  priest  al- 
ready!— Look'ee,  doctor,  you  come  before 
your  time;  I  an't  condemned  yet,  I  thank 
ye. 

Foi.  Come,  my  dear  joy,  I  vill  secure 
your  body  and  your  shoul  too;  I  vill  make 
you  a  good  catholic,  and  give  you  an  abso- 
lution. 

Gib.  Absolution!  can  you  procure  me  a 
pardon,  doctor  ? 

Foi.     No,  joy. 

Gib.  Then  you  and  your  absolution  may 
go  to  the  devil ! 

Arch.  Convey  him  into  the  cellar,  there 
bind  him: — take  the  pistol,  and  if  he  offers 
to  resist,  shoot  him  through  the  head — and 
come  back  to  us  with  all  the  speed  you  can. 

Scrub.  Ay,  ay,  come,  doctor,  do  you  hold 
him  fast,  and  I'll  guard  him. 

[Exit     FOIGARD    with    GIBBET,     SCRUB    fol- 
lowing. 


189 


ACT  V,  Sc.  III. 


THE  BEAUX'  STRATAGEM 


Mrs.    Sul.     But    how    came    the    doctor 

Arch.  In  short,  madam— [Shrieking  with- 
out.} 'Sdeath!  the  rogues  are  at  work  with 
the  other  ladies — I'm  vexed  I  parted  with 
the  pistol;  but  I  must  fly  to  their  assist- 
ance.—Will  you  stay  here,  madam,  or  ven- 
ture yourself  with  me? 

Mrs.  Sul.  [Taking  him  by  the  arm.]  Oh, 
with  you,  dear  sir,  with  you.  [Exeunt. 


SCENE    III 
Another  Apartment   in   the   Same   House. 

Enter  HOUNSLOW  dragging  in  LADY  BOUNTIFUL 
and  BAGSHOT  haling  in  DORINDA;  the 
rogues  with  swords  drawn. 

Houn.     Come,     come,     your     jewels,     mis- 
tress ! 

Bag.  Your  keys,  your  keys,  old  gentle- 
woman ! 

Enter  AIMWELL  and  CHERRY. 

Aim.  Turn  this  way,  villains!  I  durst 
engage  an  army  in  such  a  cause. 

[He  engages  them  both. 

Dor.  O  madam,  had  I  but  a  sword  to 
help  the  brave  man ! 

Lady  Boun.  There's  three  or  four  hang- 
ing up  in  the  hall;  but  they  won't  draw. 
I'll  go  fetch  one,  however.  [Exit. 

Enter   ARCHER    and    MRS.    SULLEN. 

Arch.  Hold,  hold,  my  lord!  every  man 
his  bird,  pray. 

[They    engage    man    to    man;    the    rogues 
are  thrown  and  disarmed. 

Cher.  [Aside.]  What!  the  rogues  taken! 
then  they'll  impeach  my  father:  I  must  give 
him  timely  notice.  [Runs  out. 

Arch.     Shall   we   kill  the   rogues? 

Aim.     No,    no,    we'll    bind    them. 

Arch.  Ay,  ay. — [To  MRS.  SULLEN,  who 
stands  by  him.]  Here,  madam,  lend  me  your 
garter. 

Mrs.  Sul.  [Aside.]  The  devil's  in  this  fel- 
low! he  fights,  loves,  and  banters,  all  in  a 
breath. — [Aloud.]  Here's  a  cord  that  the 
rogues  brought  with  'em,  I  suppose. 

Arch.  Right,  right,  the  rogue's  destiny, 
a  rope  to  hang  himself. — Come,  my  lord — 
this  is  but  a  scandalous  sort  of  an  office 
[Binding  the  rogues  together],  if  our  adven- 
tures should  end  in  this  sort  of  hangman- 


work;     but    I    hope 
prospect,   that- 


there    is    something    in 


Enter  SCRUB. 
Well,  Scrub,  have  you  secured  your 


Arch. 
Tartar? 

Scrub.     Yes,  sir,  I  left  the  priest  and  him 
disputing  about  religion. 

190 


Aim.     And  pray   carry  these  gentlemen   to 
reap  the  benefit  of  the  controversy. 

[Delivers    the    prisoners    to    SCRUB,    who 
them    out. 
Pray,     sister,    how    came    my 


leads 
Mrs.     Sul. 

lord   here? 
Dor.     And 

man   here  ? 
Mrs.   Sul. 

of  villainy- 


pray,    how    came    the    gentle- 


I'll  tell  you  the  greatest  piece 
[They  talk  in  dumb  show. 

Aim.  I  fancy,  Archer,  you  have  been 
more  successful  in  your  adventures  than 
the  housebreakers. 

Arch.  No  matter  for  my  adventure,  yours 
is  the  principal. — Press  her  this  minute  to 
marry  you — now  while  she's  hurried  between 
the  palpitation  of  her  fear  and  the  joy  of 
her  deliverance,  now  while  the  tide  of  her 
spirits  is  at  high-flood — throw  yourself  at 
her  feet,  speak  some  romantic  nonsense  or 
other — address  her,  like  Alexander  in  the 
height  of  his  victory,  confound  her  senses, 
bear  down  her  reason,  and  away  with  her. — 
The  priest  is  now  in  the  cellar,  and  dare 
not  refuse  to  do  the  work. 

Re-enter  LADY  BOUNTIFUL. 

Aim.  But  how  shall  I  get  off  without 
being  observed  ? 

Arch.  You  a  lover,  and  not  find  a  way  to 
get  off! — Let  me  see 

Aim.     You  bleed,  Archer. 

Arch.  'Sdeath,  I'm  glad  on't;  this  wound 
will  do  the  business.  I'll  amuse  the  old  lady 
and  Mrs.  Sullen  about  dressing  my  wound, 
while  you  carry  off  Dorinda. 

Lady  Boun.  Gentlemen,  could  we  under- 
stand how  you  would  be  gratified  for  the 
services 

Arch.  Come,  come,  my  lady,  this  is  no 
time  for  compliments;  I'm  wounded,  madam. 

Lady  Boun.,  Mrs.  Sul.     How!  wounded! 

Dor.  I  hope,  sir,  you  have  received  no 
hurt? 

Aim.  None  but  what  you  may  cure 

[Makes  love  in  dumb  show. 

Lady  Boun.  Let  me  see  your  arm,  sir — I 
must  have  some  powder-sugar  to  stop  the 
blood. — O  me!  an  ugly  gash;  upon  my  word, 
sir,  you  must  go  into  bed. 

Arch.  Ay,  my  lady,  a  bed  would  do  very 
well. — [To  MRS.  SULLEN.]  Madam,  will  you 
do  me  the  favor  to  conduct  me  to  a  cham- 
ber. 

Lady  Boun. 


Do,  do,  daughter — while   I  get 


the  lint  and  the  probe  and  the  plaster  ready. 
[Runs    out   one   way,    AIMWELL  carries  off 

DORINDA    another. 

Arch.     Come,  madam,   why  don't  you   obey 
your   mother's    commands? 

Mrs.    Sul.     How    can    you,    after    what    is 
passed,   have   the  confidence  to  ask   me? 

Arch.     And    if    you    go    to    that,    how    can 
you,    after    what    is    passed,    have    the    con- 


THE  BEAUX'  STRATAGEM 


ACT  V,  Sc.  IV. 


fidence  to  deny  me?  Was  not  this  blood 
shed  in  your  defence,  and  my  life  exposed 
for  your  protection?  Look  ye,  madam,  I'm 
none  of  your  romantic  fools,  that  fight 
giants  and  monsters  for  nothing;  my  valor 
is  downright  Swiss;  I'm  a  soldier  of  fortune, 
and  must  be  paid. 

Mrs.  Sul.  'Tis  ungenerous  in  you,  sir,  to 
upbraid  me  with  your  services! 

Arch.  'Tis  ungenerous  in  you,  madam, 
not  to  reward  'em. 

Mrs.  Sul.  How!  at  the  expense  of  my 
honor  ? 

Arch.  Honor!  can  honor  consist  with 
ingratitude?  If  you  would  deal  like  a  woman 
of  honor,  do  like  a  man  of  honor.  D'ye  think 
I  would  deny  you  in  such  a  case? 

Enter  a  Servant. 

Seru.  Madam,  my  lady  ordered  me  to 
tell  you,  that  your  brother  is  below  at  the 
gate.  [Exit. 

Mrs.  Sul.  My  brother!  Heavens  be 
praised! — Sir,  he  shall  thank  you  for  your 
services;  he  has  it  in  his  power. 

Arch.     Who   is  your  brother,   madam? 

Mrs.  Sul.  Sir  Charles  Freeman.— You'll 
excuse  me,  sir;  I  must  go  and  receive  him. 

[Exit. 

Arch.  Sir  Charles  Freeman!  'sdeath  and 
hell !  my  old  acquaintance.  Now  unless  Aim- 
well  has  made  good  use  of  his  time,  all  our 
fair  machine  goes  souse  into  the  sea  like  the 
Eddystone.  [Exit. 

SCENE    IV 

The  Gallery  in  the  Same  House. 
Enter  AIMWELL  and  DORINDA. 

Dor.  Well,  well,  my  lord,  you  have  con- 
quered; your  late  generous  action  will,  I 
hope,  plead  for  my  easy  yielding;  though  I 
must  own,  your  lordship  had  a  friend  in  the 
fort  before. 

Aim.  The  sweets  of  Hybla  dwell  upon  her 
tongue ! — Here,  doctor — 

Enter    FOIGARD,    with    a    book. 

Foi.     Are  you   prepared  boat? 

Dor.  I'm  ready.  But  first,  my  lord,  one 
word. — I  have  a  frightful  example  of  a  hasty 
marriage  in  my  own  family;  when  I  reflect 
upon't  it  shocks  me.  Pray,  my  lord,  con- 
sider a  little 

Aim.  Consider!  do  you  doubt  my  honor 
or  my  love  ? 

/.''./•.  Neither:  I  do  believe  you  equally 
just  as  brave:  and  were  your  whole  sex 
drawn  out  for  me  to  choose,  I  should  not 
cast  a  look  upon  the  multitude  if  you  were 
absent.  But,  my  lord,  I'm  a  woman;  colors, 
concealments  may  hide  a  thousand  faults  in 
me,  therefore  know  me  better  first.  I  hardly 


dare   affirm   I    know   myself   in   anything   ex- 
cept my  love. 


Aim. 
injure ! 


[Aside.]     Such    goodness    who     could 
I  find  myself  unequal  to  the  task  of 


villain;  she  has  gained  my  soul,  and  made 
it  honest  like  her  own. — I  cannot,  cannot 
hurt  her.— [Aloud.]  Doctor,  retire. — [Exit 
FOIGARD.]  Madam,  behold  your  lover  and 
your  proselyte,  and  judge  of  my  passion  by 
my  conversion !— I'm  all  a  lie,  nor  dare  I 
give  a  fiction  to  your  arms;  I'm  all  counter- 
feit, except  my  passion. 


Dor. 
Aim. 


Forbid    it,    Heaven!    < 
I    am    no    lord,    but 


counterfeit ! 
poor    needy 


man,  come  with  a  mean,  a  scandalous  design 
to  prey  upon  your  fortune;  but  the  beauties 
of  your  mind  and  person  have  so  won  me 
from  myself  that,  like  a  trusty  servant,  I 
prefer  the  interest  of  my  mistress  to  my 
own. 

Dor.  Sure  I  have  had  the  dream  of  some 
poor  mariner,  a  sleepy  image  of  a  welcome 
port,  and  wake  involved  in  storms! — Pray, 
sir,  who  are  you? 

Aim.  Brother  to  the  man  whose  title  I 
usurped,  but  stranger  to  his  honor  or  his 
fortune. 

Dor.  Matchless  honesty ! — Once  I  was 
proud,  sir,  of  your  wealth  and  title,  but  now 
am  prouder  that  you  want  it:  now  I  can 
show  my  love  was  justly  levelled,  and  had 
no  aim  but  love. — Doctor,  come  in. 

Enter  FOIGARD  at  one  door,  GIPSY  at  another, 
who   whispers   DORINDA. 

[To   FOIGARD.]    Your  pardon,  sir,  we  shan- 

not  want  you  now. — [To  AIMWELL.]    Sir,  you 

must  excuse   me — I'll  wait  on  you  presently. 

[Exit   with   GIPSY. 

Foi.     Upon   my   shoul,   now,   dis    is   foolish. 

[Exit. 

Aim.  Gone!  and  bid  the  priest  depart! — 
It  has  an  ominous  look. 


Enter  ARCHER. 
Courage,    Tom!— Shall    I    wish    you 


Arch. 
joy? 

Aim. 

Arch. 
doing  ? 

Aim. 


No. 
'Oons, 


man,     what     ha'     you     been 


O    Archer!  my  honesty,    I   fear,   has 


ruined    me. 
Arch.     How? 

Aim.     I    have    discovered    myself. 
Arch.     Discovered!    and    without    my    con- 
sent?     What!    have    I    embarked    my    small 
remains  in  the  same  bottom  with  yours,  and 
you   dispose  of   all   without   my   partnership? 
O  Archer!     I  own   my  fault. 
After   conviction — 'tis   then   too   late 


Aim. 
Arch. 


for  pardon. — You  may  remember,  Mr.  Aim- 
well,  that  you  proposed  this  folly:  as  you 
begun,  so  end  it.  Henceforth  I'll  hunt  my 
fortune  single — so  farewell ! 


191 


ACT  V,  Sc.  IV. 


THE  BEAUX'  STRATAGEM 


Aim.     Stay,  my  dear  Archer,  but  a  minute. 

Arch.  Stay!  what,  to  be  despised,  ex- 
posed, and  laughed  at!  No,  I  would  sooner 
change  conditions  with  the  worst  of  the 
rogues  we  just  now  bound,  than  bear  one 
scornful  smile  from  the  proud  knight  that 
once  I  treated  as  my  equal. 

Aim.     What  knight? 

Arch.  Sir  Charles  Freeman,  brother  to 
the  lady  that  I  had  almost — but  no  matter 
for  that,  'tis  a  cursed  night's  work,  and  so 
I  leave  you  to  make  the  best  on't. 

[Going. 

Aim.  Freeman!— One  word,  Archer.  Still 
I  have  hopes;  methought  she  received  my 
confession  with  pleasure. 

Arch.     'Sdeath,  who  doubts  it? 

Aim.  She  consented  after  to  the  match; 
and  still  I  dare  believe  she  will  be  just. 

Arch.  To  herself,  I  warrant  her,  as  you 
should  have  been. 

Aim.  By  all  my  hopes  she  comes,  and 
smiling  comes ! 

Re-enter    DORINDA,    mighty   gay. 

Dor.  Come,  my  dear  lord — I  fly  with  im- 
patience to  your  arms — the  minutes  of  my 
absence  were  a  tedious  year.  Where's  this 
priest  ? 

Re-enter  FOIGARD. 

Arch.     'Oons,  a  brave  girl! 

Dor.  I  suppose,  my  lord,  this  gentleman 
is  privy  to  our  affairs? 

Arch.  Yes,  yes,  madam,  I'm  to  be  your 
father. 

Dor.     Come,  priest,  do  your  office. 

Arch.  Make  haste,  make  haste,  couple 
'em  any  way. — [Takes  AIMWELL'S  /land.] 
Come,  madam,  I'm  to  give  you 

Dor.     My  mind's  altered;   I   won't. 

Arch.     Eh! 

Aim.     I'm     confounded ! 

/•""i".     Upon  my  shoul,   and  sho  is  myshelf. 

Arch.     What's    the    matter    now,    madam? 

/•'•'/•.  Look  ye,  sir,  one  generous  action 
deserves  another. — This  gentleman's  honor 
obliged  him  to  hide  nothing  from  me;  my 
justice  engages  me  to  conceal  nothing  from 
him.  In  short,  sir,  you  are  the  person  that 
you  thought  you  counterfeited;  you  are  the 
true  Lord  Viscount  Aimwell,  and  I  wish  your 
lordship  joy.— Now,  priest,  you  may  be  gone; 
if  my  lord  is  pleased  now  with  the  match, 
let  his  lordship  marry  me  in  the  face  of  the 
world. 

Aim.,    Arch.     What    does    she    mean? 

Dor.     Here's  a  witness   for  my   truth. 

Enter  SIR  CHARLES  FREEMAN  and  MRS.  SULLEN. 

Sir  Chas.  My  dear  Lord  Aimwell,  I  wish 
you  joy 


Aim.     Of  what? 

Sir     Chas.     Of     your 


honor     and 


estate. 

192 


Your  brother  -died  the  day  before  I  left  Lon- 
don; and  all  your  friends  have  writ  after  you 
to  Brussels;— among  the  rest  I  did  myself 
the  honor. 

Arch.  Hark  'ye,  sir  knight,  don't  you 
banter  now  ? 

Sir  Chas.     'Tis  truth,  upon  my  honor. 

Aim.  Thanks  to  the  pregnant  stars  that 
formed  this  accident ! 

Arch.  Thanks  to  the  womb  of  time  that 
brought  it  forth!— away  with  it! 

Aim.  Thanks  to  my  guardian  angel  that 
led  me  to  the  prize!  [Taking  DORINDA'S  hand. 

Arch.  And  double  thanks  to  the  noble 
Sir  Charles  Freeman.— My  lord,  I  wish  you 
joy. — My  lady,  I  wish  you  joy. — Egad,  Sir 
Freeman,  you're  the  honestest  fellow  living! 
— 'Sdeath,  I'm  grown  strange  airy  upon  this 
matter! — My  lord,  how  d'ye? — A  word,  my 
lord;  don't  you  remember  something  of  a 
previous  agreement,  that  entitles  me  to  the 
moiety  of  this  lady's  fortune,  which  I  think 
will  amount  to  five  thousand  pounds  ? 

Aim.  Not  a  penny,  Archer;  you  would 
ha'  cut  my  throat  just  now,  because  I  would 
not  deceive  this  lady. 

Arch.  Ay,  and  I'll  cut  your  throat  again, 
if  you  should  deceive  her  now. 

Aim.  That's  what  I  expected;  and  to  end 
the  dispute,  the  lady's  fortune  is  ten  thou- 
sand pounds,  we'll  divide  stakes:  take  the 
ten  thousand  pounds  or  the  lady. 

Dor.  How!  is  your  lordship  so  indif- 
ferent ? 

Arch.  No,  no,  no,  madam !  his  lordship 
knows  very  well  that  I'll  take  the  money; 
I  leave  you  to  his  lordship,  and  so  we're  both 
provided  for. 

Enter   COUNT    BELLAIR. 

Count  Bel.  Mesdames  et  Messieurs,  I  am 
your  servant  trice  humble!  I  hear  you  be 
rob  here. 

Aim.  The  ladies  have  been  in  some  dan- 
ger, sir. 

Count  Bel.  And,  begar,  our  inn  be  rob 
too! 

Aim.     Our    inn!    by    whom? 

Count  Bel.  By  the  landlord,  begar! — 
Garzoon,  he  has  rob  himself,  and  run  away ! 

Arch.     Robbed    himself! 

Count  Bel.  Ay,  begar,  and  me  too  of  a 
hundre  pound. 

Arch.     A    hundred    pounds? 

Count  Bel.     Yes,   that  I   owed  him. 

Aim.     Our    money's    gone,    Frank. 

Arch.  Rot  the  money!  my  wench  is  gone. 
— [To  COUNT  BELLAIR.]  Savez-vous  quelque- 
chose  de  Mademoiselle  Cherry? 

Enter  a  Fellow  with  a  strong-box  and  a  letter. 

Fell.  Is  there  one  Martin  here? 
Arch.  Ay,  ay — who  wants  him? 
Fell.  I  have  a  box  here,  and  letter  for  him. 


THE  BEAUX'  STRATAGEM 


ACT  V,  So.  IV. 


Arch.  [Taking  the  box.'}  Ha!  ha!  ha!  what's 
here?  Legerdemain! — By  this  light,  my 
lord,  our  money  again! — But  this  unfolds  the 
riddle. — {Opening  the  letter,  reads.}  Hum, 
hum,  hum!— Oh,  'tis  for  the  public  good,  and 
must  be  communicated  to  the  company. 

[Reads. 

Mr.  Martin, 

My  father  being  afraid  of  an  impeachment 
by  the  rogues  that  are  taken  to-night,  is 
gone  off;  but  if  you  can  procure  him  a 
pardon,  he'll  make  great  discoveries  that 
may  be  useful  to  the  country.  Could  I  have 
met  you  instead  of  your  master  to-night,  I 
would  have  delivered  myself  into  your  hands, 
with  a  sum  that  much  exceeds  that  in  your 
strong-box,  which  I  have  sent  you,  with  an 
assurance  to  my  dear  Martin  that  I  shall 
ever  be  his  most  faithful  friend  till  death. 
Cherry  Boniface. 

There's  a  billet-doux  for  you!  As  for  the 
father,  I  think  he  ought  to  be  encouraged; 
and  for  the  daughter — pray,  my  lord,  per- 
suade your  bride  to  take  her  into  her  serv- 
ice instead  of  Gipsy. 

Aim.  I  can  assure  you,  madam,  your  de- 
liverance was  owing  to  her  discovery. 

Dor.  Your  command,  my  lord,  will  do 
without  the  obligation.  I'll  take  care  of  her. 

Sir  Chas.  This  good  company  meets  op- 
portunely in  favor  of  a  design  I  have  in 
behalf  of  my  unfortunate  sister.  I  intend 
to  part  her  from  her  husband — gentlemen, 
will  you  assist  me? 

Arch.  Assist  you!  'sdeath,  who  would 
not? 

Count  Bel.     Assist!  garzoon,  we  all  assist! 

Enter  SULLEN. 

Squire  Sul.  What's  all  this?  They  tell 
me,  spouse,  that  you  had  like  to  have  been 
robbed. 

Mrs.  Sul.  Truly,  spouse,  I  was  pretty 
near  it,  had  not  these  two  gentlemen  inter- 
posed. 

Squire  Sul.  How  came  these  gentlemen 
here? 

Mrs.  Sul.  That's  his  way  of  returning 
thanks,  you  must  know. 

Count  Bel.  Garzoon,  the  question  be 
apropos  for  all  dat. 

Sir  Chas.  You  promised  last  night,  sir, 
that  you  would  deliver  your  lady  to  me  this 
morning. 

Squire    Sul.     Humph ! 

Arch.  Humph!  what  do  you  mean  by 
humph?  Sir,  you  shall  deliver  her — in  short, 
sir,  we  have  saved  you  and  your  family; 
and  if  you  are  not  civil,  we'll  unbind  the 
rogues,  join  with  'em,  and  set  fire  to  your 
house.  What  does  the  man  mean?  not  part 
with  his  wife! 


Count  Bel.  Ay,  garzoon,  de  man  no  under- 
stan  common  justice. 

Mrs.  Sul.  Hold,  gentlemen!  All  things 
here  must  move  by  consent,  compulsion 
would  spoil  us.  Let  my  dear  and  I  talk 
the  matter  over,  and  you  shall  judge  it 
between  us. 

Squire  Sul.  Let  me  know  first  who  are 
to  be  our  judges.  Pray,  sir,  who  are  you? 

Sir  Chas.  I  am  Sir  Charles  Freeman,  come 
to  take  away  your  wife. 

Squire   Sul.     And   you,   good   sir? 

Aim.  Charles,  Viscount  Aim  well,  come  to 
take  away  your  sister. 

Squire   Sul.     And  you,  pray,   sir? 

Arch.     Francis    Archer,    esquire,    come 

Squire  Sul.  To  take  away  my  mother,  I 
hope.  Gentlemen,  you're  heartily  welcome; 
I  never  met  with  three  more  obliging  people 
since  I  was  born! — And  now,  my  dear,  if  you 
please,  you  shall  have  the  first  word. 

Arch.     And   the   last,   for  five  pound! 

Mrs.  Sul.     Spouse! 

Squire    Sul.     Rib ! 

Mrs.  Sul.  How  long  have  we  been  mar- 
ried? 

Squire  Sul.  By  the  almanac,  fourteen 
months;  but  by  my  account,  fourteen  years. 

Mrs.  Sul.  'Tis  thereabout  by  my  reckon- 
ing. 

Count  Bel.  Garzoon,  their  account  will 
agree. 

Mrs.  Sul.  Pray,  spouse,  what  did  you 
marry  for? 

Squire  Sul.     To  get  an  heir  to  my  estate. 

Sir    Chas.     And    have   you   succeeded? 

Squire   Sul.     No. 

Arch.  The  condition  fails  of  his  side. — 
Pray,  madam,  what  did  you  marry  for? 

Mrs.  Sul.  To  support  the  weakness  of 
my  sex  by  the  strength  of  his,  and  to  enjoy 
the  pleasures  of  an  agreeable  society. 

Sir  Chas.  Are  your  expectations  an- 
swered ? 

Mrs.    Sul.     No. 

Count  Bel.     A  clear  case!  a  clear  case! 

Sir  Chas.  What  are  the  bars  to  your 
mutual  contentment? 

Mrs.  Sul.  In  the  first  place,  I  can't  drink 
ale  with  him. 

Squire  Sul.  Nor  can  I  drink  tea  with 
her. 

Mrs.   Sul.     I   can't   hunt   with  you. 

Squire    Sul.     Nor   can   I    dance   with   you. 

Mrs.  Sul.     I  hate  cocking  and  racing. 

Squire  Sul.     And  I  abhor  ombre  and  piquet. 

Mrs.    Sul.     Your    silence    is    intolerable. 

Squire  Sul.     Your  prating   is   worse. 

Mrs.  Sul.  Have  we  not  been  a  perpetual 
offence  to  each  other?  a  gnawing  vulture  at 
the  heart? 

Squire  Sul.  A  frightful  goblin  to  the 
sight? 

Mrs.  Sul.     A  porcupine  to  the  feeling? 


193 


EPILOGUE 


THE  BEAUX'  STRATAGEM 


Squire  Sul.  Perpetual  wormwood  to  the 
taste? 

Mrs,  Sul.  Is  there  on  earth  a  thing  we 
could  agree  in? 

Squire  Sul.     Yes — to  part. 

Mrs.   Sul.     With   all    my    heart. 

Squire  Sul.     Your  hand. 

Mrs.  Sul.     Here. 

Squire  Sul.  These  hands  joined  us,  these 
shall  part  us. — Away ! 

Mrs.  Sul.     North. 

Squire    Sul.     South. 

Mrs.    Sul.     East. 

Squire  Sul.  West — far  as  the  poles 
asunder. 

Count  Bel.  Begar,  the  ceremony  be  vera 
pretty ! 

Sir  Chas.  Now,  Mr.  Sullen,  there  wants 
only  my  sister's  fortune  to  make  us  easy. 

Squire  Sul.  Sir  Charles,  you  love  your 
sister,  and  I  love  her  fortune;  every  one  to 
his  fancy. 

Arch.     Then  you  won't  refund; 

Squire   Sul.     Not   a   stiver. 

Arch.  Then  I  find,  madam,  you  must  e'en 
go  to  your  prison  again. 

Count  Bel.     What  is  the  portion? 

Sir   Chas.     Ten    thousand   pounds,   sir. 

Count  Bel.  Garzoon,  I'll  pay  it,  and  she 
shall  go  home  wid  me. 

Arch.  Ha!  ha!  ha!  French  all  over. — Do 
you  know,  sir,  what  ten  thousand  pounds 
English  is  ? 

Count  Bel.     No,  begar,  not  justement. 

Arch.  Why,  sir,  'tis  a  hundred  thousand 
livres. 

Count  Bel.  A  hundre  tousand  livres!  Ah! 
garzoon,  me  canno*  do't,  your  beauties  and 
their  fortunes  are  both  too  much  for  me. 

Arch.  Then  I  will. — This  night's  adven- 
ture has  proved  strangely  lucky  to  us  all — 
for  Captain  Gibbet  in  his  walk  had  made 
bold,  Mr.  Sullen,  with  your  study  and 
escritoir,  and  had  taken  out  all  the  writings 
of  your  estate,  all  the  articles  of  marriage 
with  this  lady,  bills,  bonds,  leases,  receipts 
to  an  infinite  value:  I  took  'em  from  him, 
and  I  deliver  'em  to  Sir  Charles. 

[Gives  SIR   CHARLES   FREEMAN   a   parcel   of 
papers    and    parchments. 

Squire  Sul.  How,  my  writings! — my  head 
aches  consumedly. — Well,  gentlemen,  you 
shall  have  her  fortune,  but  I  can't  talk.  If 
you  have  a  mind,  Sir  Charles,  to  be  merry, 


and  celebrate  my  sister's  wedding  and  my 
divorce,  you  may  command  my  house — but 
my  head  aches  consumedly. — Scrub,  bring 
me  a  dram. 

Arch.  [To  MRS.  SULLEN.]  Madam,  there's 
a  country  dance  to  the  trifle  that  I  sung  to- 
day; your  hand,  and  we'll  lead  it  up. 

Here   a   Dance. 

'Twould  be  hard  to  guess  which  of  these 
parties  is  the  better  pleased,  the  couple 
joined,  or  the  couple  parted;  the  one  rejoic- 
ing in  hopes  of  an  untasted  happiness,  and 
the  other  in  their  deliverance  from  an  ex- 
perienced misery. 

Both  happy   in  their   several   states  we  find, 
Those    parted    by    consent,    and    those    con- 
joined. 

Consent,  if  mutual,  saves  the  lawyer's  fee, 
Consent  is  law  enough  to  set  you  free. 


EPILOGUE 

Designed    to    be    spoken    in    "  The    Beaux' 
Stratagem." 

If  to  our  play  your  judgment  can't  be  kind, 
Let   its   expiring   author    pity    find: 
Survey  his  mournful  case  with  melting  eyes, 
Nor  let  the  bard  be  damned  before  he   dies. 
Forbear,  you  fair,  on  his  last  scene  to  frown, 
But  his  true  exit  with  a  plaudit  crown; 
Then  shall  the  dying  poet  cease  to  fear 
The    dreadful   knell,   while   your   applause   he 

hear. 

At   Leuctra   so   the   conquering  Theban   died, 
Claimed  his   friends'  praises,  but   their  tears 

denied: 
Pleased    in    the    pangs    of    death    he    greatly 

thought 
Conquest     with     loss     of     life     but     cheaply 

bought. 
The  difference  this,  the  Greek  was  one  would 

fight, 
As    brave,    though    not    so    gay,   as    Serjeant 

Kite; 
Ye  sons  of  Will's,  what's  that  to  those  who 

write? 

To  Thebes  alone  the  Grecian  owed  his  bays, 
You  may  the  bard  above  the  hero  raise, 
Since  yours  is  greater  than  Athenian  praise. 


194 


JOSEPH  ADDISON 


CATO 


AT  first  sight  it  seems  no  very  fruitful  study  to  contemplate  a  versatile 
man  of  letters  only  in  what  is  admittedly  one  of  the  less  potent  phases  of  his 
manifold  activity.  When  Dr.  Johnson  advises  him  who  wishes  to  attain  an 
English  style,  "  to  give  his  days  and  nights  to  the  volumes  of  Addison,"  he 
is  thinking  of  his  prose,  not  of  his  dramatic  verse,  of  The  Spectator,  not  of 
Cato.  And  yet  the  single  tragedy  of  the  great  essayist  has  a  far  larger 
significance  than  similar  solitary  compositions  of  Thomson,  Smollett,  and 
Johnson  himself.  This  significance  lies  not  so  much  in  any  intrinsic  merit 
of  Addison's  classical  drama  as  in  its  immediate  effect.  The  enthusiastic 
reception  of  Cato  by  the  audiences  of  Queen  Anne's  time  is  unquestionably 
the  most  convincing  revelation  granted  us  of  the  standard  of  dramatic  ap- 
preciation in  that  era.  Hence  the  necessary  inclusion  of  the  play  in  any 
collection  of  eighteenth-century  dramas. 

The  tragedy  of  Cato  is  connected  with  widely  different  periods  of  Ad- 
dison's comparatively  short  life  (1672-1719).  His  school  days  at  the  Charter- 
house and  his  long  sojourn  in  the  cloisters  and  walks  of  Magdalen  College 
(Oxford)  were  behind  him,  but  he  was  not  far  past  the  time  of  youth,  when 
during  his  wander-years  on  the  Continent  (1699-1702)  he  composed  four 
acts  of  a  play  on  the  death  of  the  famous  old  Roman.  When  Captain 
Richard  Steele  read  these  with  loud  approval  to  the  genial  Colley  Gibber 
across  the  table  of  a  London  tavern  in  1703,  his  cherished  friend,  "  Joe," 
was  not  yet  "  the  great  Mr.  Addison."  The  Latin  poems  of  college-days,  his 
versified  Letter  from  Italy  and  the  prose  record  of  his  Travels  comprised 
the  literary  output  of  this  scholar,  now  turned  of  thirty.  In  these  Addison's 
days  of  the  lean  kine,  Steele's  prediction  of  the  incomplete  tragedy  seemed 
well  founded :  "  Whatever  spirit  Mr.  Addison  had  shown  in  his  writing  it,  he 
doubted  he  would  never  have  courage  enough  to  let  his  Cato  stand  the 
censure  of  an  English  audience;  that  it  had  only  been  the  amusement  of  his 
leisure  hours  in  Italy  and  was  never  intended  for  the  stage."  For  ten  years 
— as  long  a  period  as  Walter  Scott  just  a  century  later  kept  by  him  the 
unfinished  manuscript  of  Waverley — he  shrank  from  completing  and  pub- 
lishing his  drama.  During  these  ten  years  he  had  risen  to  the  primacy  in  the 
English  world  of  letters.  The  wide  notoriety  of  The  Campaign,  with  which 

195 


CATO 

he  greeted  Marlborough's  victory  of  Blenheim  in  1704,  and  the  high  dis- 
tinction of  official  rewards,  characteristic  of  this  age  of  patronage,  had  been 
succeeded  by  the  large  popularity  of  The  Toiler  and  The  Spectator  papers 
(1709-1712).  Yet  these  successes  seemed  to  lessen  little  his  shrinking  from 
the  stage  that  had  been  increased  to  a  childish  timidity  by-  the  failure  of 
his  opera  of  Rosamond  in  1706.  External  influences  availed,  however,  against 
his  reserve.  Political  friends,  who  professed  to  believe  that  endangered 
liberty  might  be  preserved  by  a  single  stage-play,  importuned  Addison,  so 
Dr.  Johnson  tells  us,  "  in  the  names  of  the  tutelary  deities  of  Britain  to  show 
his  courage  and  zeal  by  finishing  his  design."  With  such  promptings  loud 
in  his  ears,  Addison  reluctantly  concluded  his  ungrateful  task.  One  voice  at 
least  was  heard,  that  of  Pope,  urging  him  to  be  content  with  printing  and 
not  to  court  popular  disfavor  on  the  stage.  This  advice,  according  so  fully 
with  his  own  fears,  Addison  was  led  to  disregard  by  the  wishes  of  his  Whig 
associates ;  and — to  adapt  his  own  line — "  deliberating  was  lost." 

Preparations  for  the  presentation  of  Cato  in  April,  1713,  now  went  on 
with  spirit.  The  great  Betterton,  Steele's  ideal  for  the  role  of  Cato  in  1703, 
had  now  been  dead  three  years,  but  the  lively  Gibber. was  willing  to  take 
the  part  of  Syphax,  and  Wilks,  Farquhar's  friend,  assumed  that  of  Juba. 
For  the  title-role  was  selected  an  admirable  young  actor,  Barton  Booth ;  and 
for  the  part  of  Marcus,  a  boy  of  eighteen,  Lacy  Ryan.  Nance  Oldfield  as 
Marcia  and  Mrs.  Porter  as  Lucia  were  the  women  of  this  strong  cast.  Much 
care  was  taken  in  rehearsal.  As  the  author  had  waived  all  share  of  profits, 
the  actor-managers  spared  no  cost  in  decorations  and  costumes.  Cato  wore 
a  full-bottomed  wig  of  fifty  guineas'  value,  Marcia  was  resplendent  in  hoop 
and  brocade,  and  the  gold  lace  of  Juba's  waistcoat  won  high  praise.  The 
ubiquitous  Steele  was  engaged  to  pack  the  house  in  Drury  Lane ;  and  he 
seems  to  have  done  his  work  well,  for  Whigs  and  Tories,  on  the  scent  of 
political  allusions,  were  present  in  large  numbers.  Men  of  Addison's  own 
party  hoped,  as  Macaulay  says,  "  that  the  public  would  discover  some  analogy 
between  the  followers  of  Caesar  and  the  Tories,  between  Sempronius  and  the 
apostate  Whigs,  between  Cato  struggling  to  the  last  for  the  liberties  of 
Rome  and  the  band  of  patriots  who  still  stood  firm  round  Halifax  and 
Wharton."  Warm  Whig  clacqueurs  from  "  the  city,"  delighted  by  the  rant 
of  Sempronius,  applauded  loudly  in  the  wrong  places.  But  all  these  precau- 
tions were  unnecessary.  From  the  first  lines  of  Pope's  worthy  prologue  to 
the  last  word  of  Garth's  frivolous  epilogue,  all  was  eager  attention.  To 
quote  from  Pope's  vivid  account  of  the  performance :  "  Cato  was  not  so 
much  the  wonder  of  Rome  in  his  days,  as  he  is  of  Britain  in  ours.  .  .  . 
'  Factions  strive  who  shall  applaud  him  most.'  The  numerous  and  violent 
claps  of  the  Whig  party  on  the  one  side  of  the  theatre  were  echoed  back 
by  the  Tories  on  the  other,  while  the  author  sweated  behind  the  scenes  with 
concern  to  find  their  applause  proceeding  more  from  the  hand  than  the 
head."  The  Whig  triumph  was  counteracted  by  the  wily  Tory  leader,  Lord 

196 


CATO 

Bolingbroke,  who  called  Booth  into  his  box  between  the  acts  and  rewarded 
him  with  a  purse  of  fifty  guineas.  The  play  was  presented  to  crowded 
houses  in  London  for  thirty-five  consecutive  nights,  and,  in  the  summer, 
was  carried  to  Oxford,  where  it  delighted  the  throng  of  gownsmen.  We  are 
told  that  the  London  and  Oxford  profits  together  brought  to  each  of  the 
three  actor-managers  fifteen  hundred  pounds. 

It  is  the  deliberate  opinion  of  Macaulay,  that  "  Cato  did  as  much  as  the 
Toilers,  Spectators,  and  Freeholders  united  to  raise  Addison's  fame  among 
his  countrymen."  In  that  day  of  pamphleteering,  approval  or  censure  always 
found  expression  in  tractules ;  and  in  several  such  monographs,  Addison  was 
"  dieted  with  praise,  like  a  pet  lamb  in  a  sentimental  farce."  Yet  a  hoarse 
voice  was  raised  in  angry  dissent — that  of  surly  John  Dennis,  the  "  Appius  "  of 
Pope's  Essay  on  Criticism.  His  envious  soul  was  offended  by  the  chorus  of 
applause,  so  unlike  the  silence  that  greeted  his  own  dreary  tragedies  of  Whig- 
gish  tendencies,  and  his  critical  judgment  was  outraged  by  obvious  blemishes 
in  the  highly  lauded  play.  Classical  critic  that  he  is,  he  doffs  his  hat  at  the 
outset  of  his  shilling  philippic  to  the  rules  of  Aristotle,  and  aims  to  show 
that  the  "  faults  and  absurdities "  of  Cato  arise  either  from  not  observing 
these  rules  or  from  observing  them  without  discretion.  The  moral  is  not 
derived  from  the  action,  which  carries  a  pernicious  instruction,  self-murder ; 
the  amorous  actions  are  improbable  on  a  day  of  great  consequences;  the 
rivalship  between  the  two  brothers  has  no  manner  of  influence  upon  the 
action  of  the  play  and  therefore  corrupts  its  unity,  nor  has  it  any  conse- 
quence in  itself,  since  one  brother  is  killed  not  as  the  effect  of  rivalship,  but 
by  common  fortune  of  war ;  the  villainy  is  comical  and  unnecessary ;  and  the 
character  of  Cato  is  "inconvenient,"  not  only  because  the  subject  is  unfit  for 
tragedy,  but  because  his  behavior  in  the  play  is  inconsistent.  But  these  are 
not  the  indictments  pressed  with  the  greatest  force  by  this  carping  critic.  In 
his  opinion  the  chief  weakness  of  Cato  lies,  first  in  its  neglect  of  the  doctrine 
of  poetic  justice — a  neglect  entirely  consistent  with  the  attack  in  The  Spec- 
tator, No.  40,  upon  "  the  ridiculous  doctrine  in  modern  criticism  that  writers 
of  tragedy  are  obliged  to  an  equal  distribution  of  rewards  and  punishments  "- 
and  secondly  in  a  too  close  adherence  to  the  principle  of  "  unity  of  place," 
which  leads  the  dramatist  into  a  dozen  palpable  absurdities.  Every  sort  of 
action  in  the  play — conspiracy,  love-making,  the  clashing  of  tongues  and  of 
swords,  Cato's  solitary  meditation — befalls  preposterously  in  "  the  large  hall 
in  the  governor's  palace  at  Utica."  Dennis's  temper  was  doubtless  coarse, 
but  his  criticisms  were  acute ;  and  it  was  well  for  Addison's  serene  dignity 
that  he  did  not  attempt  a  reply,  which  must  have  been  futile,  but,  as  Pope 
declared  in  the  ill-advised  and  scurrilous  pamphlet,  The  Frenzy  of  John 
Dennis,  "  was  best  avenged,  as  the  sun  was  in  the  fable  upon  the  bats  and 
owls,  by  shining  on." 

The  adulation  of  partial  friends  and  admirers  need  not  long  detain  us. 
Over  against   Steele's  too  lavish  tribute,   "  That  perfect  piece  called   Cato, 

197 


CATO 

which  has  done  so  great  honor  to  our  nation  and  language,  excels  as  much 
in  the  passions  of  its  lovers  as  in  the  sublime  sentiments  of  its  hero,"  must 
be  set  the  unbiased  opinion  of  Dr.  Johnson,  which  leaves  so  little  to  be  said 
in  the  way  of  summary : 

"  About  things  on  which  the  public  thinks  long,  it  commonly  attains  to 
think  right;  and  of  Cato  it  has  not  been  unjustly  determined  that  it  is 
rather  a  poem  in  dialogue  than  a  drama,  rather  a  succession  of  just  senti- 
ments in  elegant  language  than  a  representation  of  natural  affections,  or  of 
any  state  probable  or  possible  in  human  life.  Nothing  here  '  excites  or 
assuages  emotion  ' ;  here  is  '  no  magical  power  of  raising  fantastic  terror  or 
wild  anxiety.'  The  events  are  expected  without  solicitude,  and  are  remem- 
bered without  joy  or  sorrow.  Of  the  agents  we  have  no  care;  we  consider 
not  what  they  are  doing  or  what  they  are  suffering;  we  wish  only  to  know 
what  they  have  to  say.  Cato  is  a  being  above  our  solicitude;  a  man  of  whom 
the  gods  take  care,  and  whom  we  leave  to  their  care  with  heedless  con- 
fidence. To  the  rest  neither  gods  nor  men  can  have  much  attention,  for 
there  is  not  one  among  them  that  strongly  attracts  either  affection  or  esteem. 
But  they  are  made  the  vehicles  of  such  sentiments  and  such  expressions  that 
there  is  scarcely  a  scene  in  the  play  which  the  reader  does  not  wish  to  impress 
upon  his  memory." 

In  Cato,  Addison's  chief  aim  was  to  bring  English  tragedy  into  accord 
with  classical  precedent,  as  interpreted  by  the  French  school  of  Racine  and 
Boileau.  Hence  there  was  to  be  strict  adherence  to  rules  supposedly 
"  founded  on  reason  and  nature  and  established  above  these  2,000  years  " : — 
the  unities  of  action,  time,  and  place,  the  decorum  of  characters,  the  pro- 
priety of  manners,  the  morality  of  sentiments.  Addison's  sympathy  with 
these  "  known  and  allowed  rules "  of  the  classicists  had  already  been  dis- 
played in  his  Epilogue  to  Ambrose  Philips'  version  of  the  Andromaque  of 
Racine,  The  Distrest  Mother  (i/n),  and  in  constant  puffs  of  that  model  of 
correctness  in  The  Spectator  (Nos.  223,  229,  290,  335).  Indeed  the  stage- 
success  of  Philips'  borrowed  tragedy  had  been  a  large  factor  among  the 
influences  that  finally  overcame  Addison's  reluctance  to  give  Cato  to  the 
world.  However  Dennis  might  scoff,  prevailing  contemporary  opinion  was 
voiced  by  the  dramatist's  staunch  defender,  George  Sewell,  in  the  flattering 
declaration  that  "  Cato  conformed  to  the  spirit  of  poetry  and  to  the  best 
rules  of  criticism."  This  verdict  was  approved  by  Voltaire  a  generation 
later: — "The  first  English  writer  who  composed  a  regular  tragedy  and 
infused  a  spirit  of  elegance  through  every  part  of  it  was  the  illustrious 
Mr.  Addison.  His  Cato  is  a  masterpiece  both  with  regard  to  the  diction 
and  the  harmony  and  beauty  of  the  numbers." 

This  attitude  of  adulation  could  endure  only  so  long  as  classical  prece- 
dents and  rules  of  reason  were  all-powerful.  "  While  the  present  humor 
of  idolizing  Shakspere  continues,"  so  wrote  even  Addison's  right  reverend 
editor,  Dr.  Hurd,  over  a  hundred  years  ago,  "  no  quarter  will  be  given  to 

198 


this  poem."  We  have  left  eighteenth-century  landmarks  so  far  behind  us 
that  the  model  tragedy  of  that  age  nowhere  conforms  to  our  conception  of 
the  tragic.  During  the  greater  part  of  the  play,  the  hero  moves  apart  from 
the  action,  rather  a  name,  a  reputation,  than  a  man.  He  is  not  only  remote 
from  our  sympathies,  but  above  them,  since  perfection  is  no  fit  theme  for 
tragedy,  however  it  may  shine  in  Plutarch's  Life  of  Cato  the  Younger,  the 
chief  source  of  the  drama.  If  the  constant  references  by  others  to  Cato's 
prestige  and  his  own  pompous  self-righteousness  excite  any  feeling  in  us, 
it  is  that  of  protest,  for  like  the  Athenian  voter  we  weary  of  hearing  the 
popular  idol  called  "  the  just."  Moreover,  Cato's  only  important  act,  his  self- 
destruction — though  in  accord  with  the  Plutarchan  account — is  not  only 
futile,  but  is  adorned  by  Addison  with  sentiments  entirely  out  of  char- 
acter. That  others  should  regret  the  unwisdom  of  the  suicide  is  natural ; 
that  Cato's  last  words  should  suggest  his  own  large  doubt  of  its  necessity 
is  utterly  inconsistent  with  his  Stoic  principles.  Even  the  admiring  Hurd 
admits  with  episcopal  pomp  that  "  the  amiable  author,  ever  attentive  to  the 
interests  of  religion  and  virtue,  chose,  for  the  sake  of  these,  to  violate  de- 
corum." Then,  too,  Cato's  benevolent  joining  of  hands  and  hearts  in  the 
final  speech  is  far  more  in  accord  with  the  "  God  bless  you,  my  children !  " 
tone  of  comedy  than  with  the  tragic  spirit. 

The  love-intrigues  that  so  pleased  the  audience  of  1713  have  little  interest 
for  the  reader  of  1913.  The  characters,  who,  save  Cato,  are  all  of  Addison's 
making,  are  "  splendidly  mil."  Marcus  and  Portius,  you  cannot  tell  one  from 
t'other.  So  with  Marcia  and  Lucia.  And  the  princely  Juba  is  no  Numidian, 
but  a  conventional  young  Roman  of  spotless  honor.  Sempronius  the  villain 
is  somewhat  better  than  the  rest,  but  he  blunders  so  senselessly  and  rants 
so  blatantly  that  his  taking-off  is  hailed  as  a  relief.  So  undramatic  is  the 
structure  of  the  lovers'  story,  which  owes  nothing  to  classical  source,  that 
the  author  makes  no  attempt  to  solve  the  problem  of  the  fraternal  rivals  for 
Lucia's  hand,  but  ruthlessly  cuts  the  knot  by  the  death  of  the  unloved  brother. 
Addison  has  little  mastery  over  incident. 

Johnson's  praise  of  the  "  sentiments  and  expressions "  of  the  play  has 
been  echoed  with  some  reserve  by  later  critics.  Macaulay  declares  that  "  it 
contains  excellent  dialogue  and  declamation " ;  Ward  deems  its  language 
transparently  pure ;  and  Leslie  Stephen  finds  much  to  admire  in  its  pointed 
sentences  and  descriptive  passages.  But  even  at  its  best,  the  diction  lacks 
the  essential  traits  of  organic  dramatic  verse.  Though  clear,  it  is  so  stately 
and  formal  as  to  devitalize  the  speakers  quite.  This  sententious  moralizing 
and  this  rationalized  rant  are  the  fitting  utterance  of  rhetoricians,  not  of 
men  and  women  swayed  by  passion.  But  the  chief  fault  of  the  verse  is  its 
lack  of  poetic  quality.  The  editor  knows  no  vaunted  poem  that  contains 
more  illustrations  of  what  poetry  is  not  than  the  "  faultily  faultless  "  Cato. 

Cato,  in  its  day,  had  high  honor.  "  The  town  is  so  fond  of  it,"  writes 
Pope,  "  that  the  orange  wenches  and  fruit  women  in  the  parks  offer  the 

199 


PROLOGUE  CATO 

books  at  'the  side  of  the  coaches  and  the  prologue  and  epilogue  are  cried 
about  the  streets  by  common  hawkers."  The  play  was  translated  into  Italian, 
French,  and  Latin,  and  imitated  in  French  and  German.  Moreover,  it  held 
the  boards  for  a  century  (until  its  final  revival  in  1811)  with  Quin,  Sheridan, 
and  Kemble  in  the  title  role.  John  Kemble  was  the  last  Cato — "  the  last  of 
the  Romans."  Time  has  completely  reversed  the  eighteenth-century  verdict. 
What  has  become  of  Cato  as  a  stage-play  or  as  a  popular  poem?  Ichabod! 
Ichabod ! 


CATO 

A  Tragedy 

PROLOGUE 
By  Mr.  Pope 

To  wake  the  soul  by  tender  strokes  of  art, 

To  raise  the  genius  and  to  mend  the  heart, 

To  make  mankind  in  conscious  virtue  bold, 

Live  o'er  each  scene,  and  be  what  they  behold ; — 

For  this  the  tragic  muse  first  trod  the  stage, 

Commanding  tears  to  stream  through  every  age ; 

Tyrants  no  more  their  savage  nature  kept, 

And  foes  to  virtue  wondered  how  they  wept. 

Our  author  shuns  by  vulgar  springs  to  move 

The  hero's  glory,  or  the  virgin's  love, 

In  pitying  love,  we  but  our  weakness  show, 

And  wild  ambition  well  deserves  its  woe. 

Here  tears  shall  flow  from  a  more  generous  cause, 

Such  tears  as  patriots  shed  for  dying  laws. 

He  bids  your  breasts  with  ancient  ardor  rise, 

And  calls  forth  Roman  drops  from  British  eyes. 

Virtue  confessed  in  human  shape  he  draws, 

What  Plato  thought,  and  godlike  Cato  was : 

No  common  object  to  your  sight  displays, 

But,  what  with  pleasure  heaven  itself  surveys, 

A  brave  man  struggling  in  the  storms  of  fate, 

And  greatly  falling  with  a  falling  state ! 

While  Cato  gives  his  little  senate  laws, 

What  bosom  beats  not  in  his  country's  cause? 

Who  sees  him  act,  but  envies  every  deed? 

Who  hears  him  groan,  and  does  not  wish  to  bleed? 

Ev'n  then  proud  Caesar,  'midst  triumphal  cars, 

200 


CATO 


ACT  I,  Sc.  I. 


The  spoils  of  nations,  and  the  pomp  of  wars, 
Ignobly  vain,  and  impotently  great, 
Showed  Rome  her  Cato's  figure  drawn  in  state. 
As  her  dead  father's  reverend  image  past, 
The  pomp  was  darkened,  and  the  day  o'ercast, 
The  triumph  ceased — tears  gushed  from  every  eye, 
The  world's  great  victor  passed  unheeded  by; 
Her  last  good  man  dejected  Rome  adored. 
And  honored  Caesar's  less  than  Cato's  sword. 
Britons,  attend :  be  worth  like  this  approved, 
And  show  you  have  the  virtue  to  be  moved. 
With  honest  scorn  the  first  famed  Cato  viewed 
Rome  learning  arts  from  Greece,  whom  she  subdued. 
Our  scene  precariously  subsists  too  long 
On  French  translation,  and  Italian  song : 
Dare  to  have  sense  yourselves ;  assert  the  stage, 
Be  justly  warmed  with  your  own  native  rage. 
Such  plays  alone  should  please  a  British  ear, 
As  Cato's  self  had  not  disdained  to  hear. 


DRAMATIS  PERSONS 
MEN 


CATO. 

Lucius,  a  Senator. 
SEMPRONIUS,    a   Senator. 
JUBA,  Prince  of  Numidia. 


MARCIA,  Daughter  to  CATO. 


SYPHAX,    General    of    the   Numidians. 

POKTIUS,  )  „ 

MARCUS,  \Scns    °f    CATO- 

DECIUS,    Ambassador   from    Ccesar. 


Mutineers,  Guards,  etc. 
WOMEN 

|  LUCIA,  Daughter  to  Lucius. 


SCENE. — A    LARGE    HALL    IN    THE    GOVERNOR'S  PALACE  OF  UTICA. 


ACT  I 

SCENE    I 
PORTIUS,  MARCUS. 

For.     The   dawn    is    overcast,    the   morning- 
lowers, 

And  heavily  in  clouds  brings  on  the  day, 
The   great,   the   important   day,   big  with   the 

fate 

Of    Cato    and   of   Rome.     Our   father's    death 
Would  fill  up  all   the  guilt  of  civil  war, 
And  close  the  scene  of  blood.    Already  Caesar 
Has   ravaged  more   than   half  the   globe,   and 

sees 

Mankind     grown     thin     by     his     destructive 
sword: 


Should    he    go    further,    numbers    would    be 

wanting 

To  form  new  battles,  and  support  his  crimes. 
Ye   gods,    what   havoc   does   ambition   make 
Among  your  works ! 

Mar.  Thy  steady  temper,  Portius, 

Can     look     on     guilt,     rebellion,     fraud,     and 

Caesar, 

In  the  calm   lights  of  mild  philosophy; 
I'm  tortured  ev'n   to  madness,  when   I   think 
On   the  proud  victor:  every  time  he's  named 
Pharsalia  rises   to   my   view! — I   see 
The  insulting  tyrant,  prancing  o'er  the  field 
Strowed   with   Rome's  citizens,   and   drenched 

in  slaughter, 

His   horse's   hoofs   wet  with   Patrician  blood. 
Oh,  Portius !  is  there  not  some  chosen  curse, 


201 


ACT  I,  Sc.  I. 


CATO 


Some  hidden  thunder  in  the  stores  of  heaven, 
Red  with  uncommon  wrath,  to  blast  the  man 
Who  owes  his  greatness  to  his  country's 

ruin? 
For,     Believe  me,  Marcus,  'tis  an  impious 

greatness, 
And    mixed    with    too    much    horror    to    be 

envied. 

How  does  the  luster  of  our  father's  actions, 
Through  the  dark  cloud  of  ills  that  cover 

him, 
Break  out,  and   burn   with   more   triumphant 

brightness! 
His    sufferings    shine,    and    spread    a    glory 

around   him; 

Greatly  unfortunate,  he  fights   the   cause 
Of  honor,  virtue,  liberty,  and  Rome. 
His  sword  ne'er  fell  but  on  the  guilty  head; 
Oppression,    tyranny,    and    power    usurped, 
Draw    all    the    vengeance    of    his    arm    upon 

'em. 
Mar.     Who    knows    not    this?      But    what 

can  Cato  do 

Against  a  world,  a  base,  degenerate  world, 
That  courts  the  yoke,  and  bows  the  neck 

to  Caesar? 

Pent   up   in   Utica   he   vainly   forms 
A   poor   epitome   of   Roman   greatness, 
And,  covered  with  Numidian  guards,  directs 
A  feeble  army,   and   an  empty   senate, 
Remnants  of  mighty  battles  fought  in  vain. 
By   heavens,  such   virtues,  joined  with   such 

success, 

Distract  my  very  soul:  our  father's  fortune 
Would  almost  tempt  us  to  renounce  his 

precepts. 
Par.     Remember   what   our   father   oft   has 

told  us: 

The  ways   of  heaven  are  dark  and   intricate, 
Puzzled  in  mazes,  and  perplexed  with  errors; 
Our   understanding   traces   'em    in   vain, 
Lost  and  bewildered  in  the   fruitless  search; 
Nor   sees   with   how   much  art   the   windings 

run, 

Nor  where   the   regular   confusion   ends. 
Mar.     These  are  suggestions  of  a  mind  at 

ease: 
Oh,    Portius!    didst    thou   taste    but   half   the 

griefs 
That   wring  my   soul,   thou   couldst   not  talk 

thus  coldly. 

Passion   unpitied,   and    successless   love, 
Plant    daggers   in   my   heart,   and    aggravate 
My     other     griefs.       Were     but     my     Lucia 

kind!— 
Par.     Thou   seest   not   that   thy   brother  is 

thy    rival ; 

But  I  must  hide  it,  for  I  know  thy  temper. 

[Aside. 
Now,    Marcus,    now,    thy    virtue's    on    the 

proof: 
Put  forth  thy  utmost  strength,  work  every 

nerve, 
And  call  up  all  thy  father  in  thy  soul: 


To    quell    the    tyrant    Love,    and    guard    thy 

heart 
On    this   weak   side,   where   most   our   nature 

fails, 

Would  be  a  conquest  worthy  Cato's  son. 
Mar.     Portius,    the    counsel    which    I    can- 
not  take, 

Instead   of   healing,    but   upbraids   my   weak- 
ness. 

Bid  me  for  honor  plunge  into  a  war 
Of  thickest  foes,   and  rush  on  certain  death, 
Then    shalt    thou    see    that    Marcus    is    not 

slow 

To  follow  glory,  and  confess  his  father. 
Love   is   not    to   be    reasoned    down,    or    lost 
In  high  ambition,  and  a  thirst  of  greatness; 
'Tis    second   life,   it   grows   into   the   soul, 
Warms     every     vein,     and     beats     in     every 

pulse, 
I  feel  it  here:  my  resolution  melts — 

Par.     Behold    young    Juba,    the    Numidian 

prince! 
With    how    much    care    he   forms    himself    to 

glory, 

And  breaks  the  fierceness  of  his  native  tem- 
per 

To  copy   out   our   father's   bright   example. 
He  loves  our  sister  Marcia,  greatly  loves  her, 
His  eyes,  his  looks,  his  actions  all  betray  it: 
But     still     the     smothered     fondness     burns 

within    him. 

When  most  it  swells,  and  labors  for  a  vent, 
The  sense   of  honor  and   desire   of   fame 
Drive    the    big   passion   back   into    his    heart. 
What!    shall   an    African,    shall    Juba's    heir, 
Reproach    great    Cato's    son,    and    show    the 

world 
A  virtue  wanting  in   a  Roman   soul? 

Mar.     Portius,  no  more!  your  words  leave 

stings    behind   'em. 

Whene'er  did  Juba,  or  did  Portius,  show 
A  virtue  that  has  cast  me  at  a  distance, 
And    thrown    me    out     in     the    pursuits    of 

honor? 

Par.     Marcus,    I   know   thy   generous    tem- 
per   well ; 

Fling   but   the   appearance  of   dishonor  on   it, 
It    straight    takes    fire,    and    mounts    into    a 

blaze. 
Mar.        A     brother's     sufferings     claim     a 

brother's  pity. 
For.     Heaven    knows    I    pity    thee:    behold 

my  eyes 
Ev'n  whilst   I    speak. — Do   they   not   swim   in 

tears? 

Were   but   my   heart  as   naked    to   thy   view, 
Marcus  would  see  it  bleed  in  his  behalf. 
Mar.     Why    then    dost    treat    me    with    re- 
bukes,  instead 

Of  kind,  condoling  cares  and  friendly  sorrow? 
For.     O  Marcus!   did    I    know   the   way    to 

ease 

Thy   troubled  heart,  and  mitigate   thy  pains, 
Marcus,  believe  me,  I  could  die  to  do  it. 


202 


CATO 


ACT  I,  Sc.  III. 


Mar.     Thou    best    of    brothers,     and    thou 

best  of  friends! 
Pardon     a     weak,     distempered     soul,      that 

swells 
With    sudden    gusts,    and    sinks    as    soon    in 

calms, 
The      sport      of      passions — but      Sempronius 

conies: 
He   must  not  find  this   softness  hanging   on 

me.  [Exit. 

SCENE    II 
SEMPRONIUS,   PORTIUS. 

Sent.     Conspiracies    no    sooner    should    be 

formed 
Than   executed. 


What   means   Portius   here? 


like    not    that    cold    youth. 

semble, 


I    must    dis- 


And  speak  a  language   foreign   to  my  heart. 

[Aside. 

Good-morrow,    Portius!    let    us    once    em- 
brace, 

Once    more    embrace;    whilst    yet    we    both 
are   free. 


To-morrow     should 

friendship, 
Each   might   receive 


we     thus     express     our 
a   slave    into   his  arms: 


This    sun,    perhaps,    this    morning    sun's    the 

last, 

That   e'er   shall   rise   on   Roman   liberty. 
Por.     My    father    has    this    morning   called 

together 

To   this  poor  hall   his   little   Roman   senate, 
(The    leavings    of    Pharsalia)    to    consult 
If  yet  he  can  oppose   the  mighty   torrent 
That    bears    down    Rome,    and    all    her    gods, 

before  it, 
Or    must    at    length    give    up    the    world    to 

Caesar. 
Sein.     Not    all    the    pomp    and    majesty    of 

Rome 
Can     raise     her     senate     more     than     Cato's 

presence. 

His  virtues  render  our  assembly  awful, 
They    strike    with    something    like    religious 

fear, 

And   make    ev'n   Caesar   tremble   at   the    head 
Of     armies    flushed    with    conquest:     O    my 

Portius, 
Could    I    but    call    that    wondrous    man    my 

father, 

Would   but   thy    sister   Marcia  be    propitious 
To    thy    friend's    vows,    I    might    be    blessed 

indeed ! 
Por.     Alas!  Sempronius,  wouldst  thou  talk 

of  love 
To     Marcia,     whilst     her     father's     life's     in 

danger? 

Thou  might'st  as  well  court   the  pale  trem- 
bling  vestal, 

When    she   beholds   the   holy   flame   expiring. 
Scm.     The  more  I  see  the  wonders  of  thy 

race, 


The    more    I'm    charmed.     Thou    must    take 

heed,  my  Portius! 

The  world  has  all  its  eyes  on  Cato's  son. 
Thy  father's  merit  sets  thee  up  to  view, 
And  shows  thee  in  the  fairest  point  of 

light, 

To    make    thy    virtues    or    thy    faults    con- 
spicuous. 
Por.     Well    dost   thou   seem    to    check   my 

lingering   here 

On  this  important  hour! — I'll  straight  away, 
And  while  the  fathers  of  the  senate  meet 
In  close  debate  to  weigh  the  events  of  war, 
I'll  animate  the  soldiers'  drooping  courage, 
With  love  of  freedom,  and  contempt  of  life. 


in    their    ears    their    country's 


I'll    thunder 

cause, 

And  try  to  rouse  up  all  that's  Roman  in  'em. 
'Tis   not  in   mortals  to  command   success, 
But    we'll    do    more,    Sempronius;    we'll    de- 
serve it.  [Exit. 
Sem.,   solus.     Curse  on   the   stripling!   how 

he  apes  his  sire! 

Ambitiously    sententious! — but    I    wonder 
Old  Syphax  comes  not;  his  Numidian  genius 
Is  well  disposed  to  mischief,  were  he  prompt 
And   eager   on    it;   but   he    must   be    spurred, 
And  every  moment  quickened  to  the  course. 
Cato  has  used  me  ill:  he  has  refused 
His  daughter  Marcia  to  my  ardent  vows. 
Besides,    his    baffled   arms    and    ruined    cause 
Are  bars  to  my  ambition.     Caesar's  favor, 
That  showers  down  greatness  on  his  friends, 

will   raise  me 

To  Rome's  first  honors.  If  I  give  up  Cato, 
I  claim  in  my  reward  his  captive  daughter. 
But  Syphax  comes! — 

SCENE    III 
SYPHAX,   SEMPRONIUS. 

Syph.  Sempronius,    all    is    ready; 

I've    sounded    my    Numidians,    man    by    man, 
And  find  'em  ripe  for  a  revolt:  they  all 
Complain   aloud   of   Cato's    discipline, 
And  wait  but   the  command  to  change   their 

master. 
Sem.     Believe  me,  Syphax,  there's  no  time 

to  waste; 
Ev'n  whilst  we   speak,  our  conqueror  comes 

on, 

And  gathers  ground  upon  us  every  moment. 
Alas!  thou  know'st  not  Caesar's  active  soul, 
With  what  a  dreadful  course  he  rushes  on 
From  war  to  war:  in  vain  has  nature 

formed 

Mountains    and    oceans    to    oppose    his    pas- 
sage; 

He  bounds  o'er  all,  victorious  in  his  march, 
The  Alps  and  Pyreneans  sink  before  him; 
Through  winds  and  waves  and  storms  he 

works  his  way, 

Impatient  for   the  battle:   one  day  more 
Will  set  the  victor  thundering  at  our  gates. 


203 


ACT  I,  Sc.  IV. 


CATO 


But  tell  me,  hast  thou  yet  drawn  o'er  young 

Juba? 
That    still    would    recommend    thee    more    to 

Caesar. 
And   challenge   better   terms. 

Syph.  Alas!  he's  lost, 

He's   lost,    Sempronius;   all   his   thoughts   are 

full 

Of    Cato's    virtues: — but    I'll    try    once    more 
(For  every  instant  I  expect  him  here) 
If    yet    I    can    subdue    those    stubborn    prin- 
ciples 

Of  faith,  of  honor,  and  I  know  not  what, 
That    have    corrupted    his   Numidian    temper, 
And   struck    the   infection    into   all    his    soul. 
Sent.     Be    sure    to    press    upon    him    every 

motive. 

Juba's    surrender,    since    his    father's    death, 
Would   give  up  Afric  into  Cesar's   hands, 
And  make  him  lord  of  half  the  burning  zone. 
Syph.     But    is    it    true,    Sempronius,    that 

your   senate 
Is    called    together?      Gods!    thou    must    be 

cautious ! 

Cato  has  piercing  eyes,  and  will  discern 
Our     frauds,     unless    they're    covered     thick 

with  art. 
San.     Let     me     alone,     good     Syphax,     I'll 

conceal 
My     thoughts     in    passion     ('tis     the     surest 

way); 

I'll  bellow  out  for  Rome  and  for  my  country, 
And  mouth  at  Caesar  till  I  shake  the  senate. 
Your  cold  hypocrisy's  a  stale  device, 
A  worn-out   trick:   wouldst   thou   be   thought 

in   earnest  ? 
Clothe    thy    feigned   zeal   in   rage,   in   fire,   in 

fury! 
Syph.     In    troth,    thou'rt    able    to    instruct 

grey    hairs, 
And  teach  the  wily  African  deceit! 

Sein.     Once  more,  be  sure  to  try  thy  skill 

on  Juba. 

Meanwhile  I'll  hasten  to  my  Roman  soldiers, 
Inflame    the    mutiny,    and   underhand 
Blow    up    their    discontents,    till    they    break 

out 
Unlocked    for,    and    discharge    themselves   on 

Cato. 

Remember,  Syphax,  we  must  work  in  haste: 
Oh    think    what    anxious    moments    pass    be- 
tween 

The  birth  of  plots  and  their  last  fatal  periods. 
Oh!  'tis  a  dreadful  interval   of  time, 
Filled    up     with     horror    all,     and    big    with 

death ! 

Destruction  hangs  on  every  word  we  speak, 
On  every  thought,  till  the  concluding  stroke 
Determines  all,  and  closes  our  design. 

[Exit. 
Syph.,   solus.     I'll    try   if   yet   I    can   reduce 

to  reason 

This  headstrong  youth,  and  make  him  spurn 
at   Cato. 


The  time  is  short,  Caesar  comes  rushing  on 
us — 

But  hold!  young  Juba  sees  me,  and  ap- 
proaches. 

SCENE    IV 
JUBA,    SYPHAX. 

Juba.     Syphax,    I    joy    to    meet    thee    thus 

alone. 

I  have  observed  of  late  thy  looks  are  fallen, 
O'ercast  with  gloomy  cares  and  discontent; 
Then  tell  me,  Syphax,  I  conjure  thee,  tell 

me, 
What  are   the    thoughts    that   knit   thy   brow 

in    frowns, 
And     turn     thine     eye     thus     coldly     on     thy 

prince  ? 
Syph.     Tis   not    my    talent   to    conceal   my 

thoughts, 

Or    carry    smiles   and    sunshine    in    my    face, 
When    discontent    sits    heavy    at    my    heart. 
I   have   not  yet   so   much   the   Roman  in   me. 
Juba.     Why    dost   thou    cast   out    such    un- 
generous terms 
Against     the    lords    and    sovereigns     of     the 

world? 
Dost  thou  not  see  mankind  fall  down  before 

'em, 

And  own  the  force  of  their  superior  virtue? 
Is   there  a  nation  in   the  wilds  of  Afric, 
Amidst  our  barren  rocks  and  burning  sands, 
That  does  not  tremble  at  the   Roman  name? 
Syph.     Gods!  where's   the  worth   that   sets 

this  people   up 

Above   your   own   Numidia's    tawny   sons! 
Do     they     with     tougher     sinews     bend     the 

bow? 

Or  flies  the  javelin   swifter   to  its   mark, 
Launched  from   the  vigor  of  a  Roman   arm  ? 
Who   like    our    active    African   instructs 
The  fiery  steed,  and  trains  him  to  his  hand? 
Or  guides  in   troops   the  embattled   elephant, 
Loaden  with  war?  these,  these  are  arts,   my 

prince, 

In  which  your  Zama  does  not  stoop  to  Rome. 
Juba.     These   all    are   virtues   of    a    meaner 

rank, 
Perfections    that    are    placed    in    bones    and 

nerves. 

A  Roman  soul  is  bent  on  higher  views: 
To   civilize    the    rude,    unpolished   world, 
And   lay    it   under   the   restraint   of   laws; 
To    make    man    mild    and    sociable    to    man; 
To  cultivate   the  wild,   licentious  savage 
With    wisdom,    discipline,    and    liberal    arts — 
The     embellishments     of     life;     virtues     like 

these 

Make  human   nature  shine,   reform   the    soul, 

And    break    our   fierce    barbarians    into    men. 

Syph.     Patience,   kind   heavens ! — excuse  an 

old    man's    warmth. 

What  are  these  wondrous  civilizing  arts, 
This    Roman    polish,    and    this    smooth     be- 
havior, 


204 


CATO 


ACT  I,  Sc.  IV. 


That    render   man    thus   tractable  and    tame? 

Are   they   not   only   to  disguise  our  passions, 

To     set    our     looks    at     variance    with     our 
thoughts, 

To     check     the     starts     and     sallies     of     the 
soul, 

And    break    off    all    its    commerce    with    the 
tongue; 

In   short,  to   change  us   into  other  creatures 

Than    what    our    nature    and    the    gods    de- 
signed   us  ? 

Juba.     To    strike   thee   dumb,   turn   up    thy 
eyes    to    Cato ! 

There    may'st    thou    see    to    what    a    godlike 
height 

The  Roman  virtues  lift  up  mortal   man. 

While    good,    and   just,    and    anxious    for   his 
friends, 

He's     still     severely     bent     against     himself; 

Renouncing    sleep,    and    rest,    and    food,    and 
ease, 

He   strives  with  thirst  and  hunger,  toil  and 
heat; 

And    when    his    fortune    sets    before    him    all 

The  pomps   and  pleasures   that  his  soul  can 
wish, 

His  rigid  virtue  will  accept  of  none. 

Syph.     Believe   me,   prince,    there's    not  an 
African 

That    traverses    our   vast    Numidian    deserts 

In    quest   of   prey,    and    lives    upon    his    bow, 

But   better  practises   these   boasted   virtues. 

Coarse    are    his    meals,    the    fortune    of    the 
chase, 

Amidst    the    running    stream    he    slakes    his 
thirst, 

Toils    all    the    day,    and   at    the    approach   of 
night 

On    the    first    friendly   bank    he    throws    him 
down, 

Or  rests  his  head  upon  a  rock  till  morn: 

Then   rises   fresh,   pursues   his  wonted   game, 

And   if   the   following   day   he   chance   to   find 

A    new   repast,    or    an    untasted    spring, 

Blesses   his    stars,    and   thinks    it   luxury. 
Juba.     Thy   prejudices,   Syphax,   won't  dis- 
cern 

What     virtues     grow     from     ignorance     and 
choice, 

Nor    how    the    hero    differs    from    the    brute. 

But     grant     that     others     could     with     equal 
glory 

Look    down    on    pleasures,    and    the    baits    of 
sense; 

Where    shall    we    find    the    man    that    bears 
affliction, 

Great  and  majestic  in  his  griefs,   like  Cato? 

Heavens,    with    what    strength,    what    steadi- 
ness of  mind, 

He   triumphs    in  the  midst  of  all   his   suffer- 
ings! 

How    does    he    rise    against    a    load    of    woes, 

And   thank   the   gods   that    throw   the  weight 
upon  him ! 


Syph.     'Tis  pride,  rank  pride,  and  haughti- 
ness of  soul: 

I  think  the  Romans  call  it  stoicism. 

Had     not     your     royal     father     thought     so 
highly 

Of   Roman   virtue,   and  of   Cato's  cause, 

He    had    not    fallen    by    a    slave's    hand,    in- 
glorious ; 

Nor   would   his    slaughtered   army   now   have 
lain 

On      Afric's     sands,     disfigured     with     their 
wounds, 

To      gorge     the     wolves     and     vultures     of 

Numidia. 

Juba.     Why  dost  thou  call  my  sorrows  up 
afresh  ? 

My  father's  name  brings  tears  into  my  eyes. 
Syph.     Oh,     that     you'd     profit     by     your 

father's    ills! 

Juba.     What  wouldst  thou  have  me  do? 
Syph.  Abandon    Cato. 

Juba.     Syphax,     I     should     be     more     than 
twice   an    orphan 

By  such  a  loss. 

Syph.     Ay,  there's  the  tie  that  binds  you! 

You     long     to     call     him     father.       Marcia's 
charms 

Work    in   your   heart   unseen,    and   plead   for 
Cato. 

No  wonder  you  are  deaf  to  all  I  say. 

Juba.     Syphax,     your     zeal     becomes     im- 
portunate; 

I've    hitherto    permitted    it    to    rave, 

And   talk   at   large;    but   learn    to   keep  it   in, 

Lest    it   should   take   more   freedom   than    I'll 

give  it. 

Syph.     Sir,    your   great    father    never   used 
me  thus. 

Alas !  he's  dead !  but  can  you  e'er  forget 

The  tender  sorrows,  and  the  pangs  of  nature, 

The    fond   embraces,   and   repeated   blessings, 

Which  you  drew  from  him  in  your  last  fare- 
well? 

Still   must    I    cherish    the    dear,    sad   remem- 
brance, 

At   once    to   torture   and    to   please   my    soul. 

The    good    old    king    at    parting    wrung    my 
hand, 

(His    eyes    brimful    of    tears)    then    sighing 
cried, 

Prithee,  be  careful  of  my  son!— his   grief 

Swelled  up  so  high,  he  could  not  utter  more. 
Juba.     Alas,     thy     story     melts     away     my 
soul. 

That  best  of  fathers!  how   shall   I  discharge 

The    gratitude    and   duty    which    I    owe    him! 
Syph.     By   laying   up    his  counsels   in  your 

heart. 

Juba.     His   counsels   bade   me   yield   to   thy 
directions: 

Then,    Syphax,    chide   me   in    severest   terms, 

Vent     all     thy    passion,     and     I'll     stand    its 
shock, 

Calm  and  unruffled  as  a  summer  sea, 


205 


ACT  I,  Sc.  VI. 


CATO 


When    not    a    breath    of    wind    flies    o'er    its 

surface. 
Syph.     Alas,  my  prince,   I'd  guide  you  to 

your    safety. 
J  ii  bii.     I   do  believe   thou  wouldst:   but  tell 

me  how? 
Syph.     Fly     from     the     fate     that     follows 

Caesar's    foes. 

Juba.     My  father  scorned  to  do  it. 
Syph.  And   therefore  died. 

Juba.     Better    to    die    ten    thousand    thou- 
sand deaths, 
Than   wound  my  honor. 

Syph.  Rather  say,  your  love. 

Juba.     Syphax,    I've    promised    to    preserve 

my    temper. 

Why   wilt   thou   urge  me   to   confess  a  flame 

I   long  have  stifled,  and  would  fain   conceal? 

Syph.     Believe    me,    prince,    'tis    hard    to 

conquer    love, 

But  easy  to  divert  and  break  its  force: 
Absence  might  cure  it,  or  a  second  mistress 
Light    up    another    flame,    and   put    out    this. 
The    glowing    dames    of    Zama's    royal    court 
Have      faces      flushed      with     more      exalted 

charms, 
The    sun,    that    rolls    his    chariot    o'er    their 

heads, 
Works    up     more    fire    and    color    in    their 

cheeks: 
Were  you  with  these,  my  prince,  you'd  soon 

forget 

The    pale,    unripened   beauties    of    the    north. 
Juba.     "Tis  not  a  set  of  features,   or  com- 
plexion, 

The  tincture  of  a  skin,  that  I  admire. 
Beauty  soon  grows  familiar  to  the  lover, 
Fades  in  his  eye,  and  palls  upon  the  sense. 
The  virtuous  Marcia  towers  above  her  sex: 
True,  she  is  fair,  (oh,  how  divinely  fair!), 
But  still  the  lovely  maid  improves  her 

charms 

With    inward    greatness,    unaffected    wisdom, 
And    sanctity   of   manners.     Cato's    soul 
Shines  out  in  everything  she  acts  or  speaks, 


mildness      and     attractive 
and     with     becoming 


While      winning 

smiles 
Dwell     in     her    looks, 

grace 

Soften  the  rigor  of  her  father's  virtues. 
Syph.     How   does   your  tongue   grow   wan- 
ton  in   her   praise! 

But    on    my    knees    I    beg    you    would    con- 
sider— 
Juba.     Hah!    Syphax,     is't     not     she?— she 

moves    this    way: 

And  with  her  Lucia,  Lucius's  fair  daughter. 
My     heart    beats     thick — I     prithee,    Syphax, 

leave    me. 
Syph.     Ten  thousand  curses  fasten  on  'em 

both! 

Now  will  this   woman,  with  a  single   glance, 
Undo  what  I've  been  laboring  all  this  while. 

[Exit. 


SCENE    V 
JUBA,    MARCIA,    LUCIA. 

Juba.     Hail,    charming    maid !      How    does 

thy  beauty   smooth 

The  face  of  war,  and  make  even  horror  smile! 
At    sight    of    thee    my    heart    shakes    off    its 

sorrows ; 

I  feel  a  dawn  of  joy  break  in  upon  me, 
And    for    a    while    forget    the    approach    of 

Caesar. 
Mar.     1   should   be    grieved,   young   prince, 

to  think  my  presence 
Unbent    your    thoughts,    and    slackened    'em 

to   arms, 
While,   warm   with   slaughter,  our  victorious 

foe 

Threatens  aloud,   and   calls  you   to  the  field. 
Juba.     O    Marcia,    let    me    hope    thy    kind 

concerns 

And    gentle   wishes    follow   me    to   battle! 
The    thought    will    give    new    vigor    to    my 

arm, 
Add  strength  and  weight  to  my  descending 

sword, 

And   drive  it  in   a  tempest  on   the  foe. 
Mar.     My  prayers  and  wishes  always  shall 

attend 
The   friends   of  Rome,   the  glorious   cause  of 

virtue, 

And  men  approved  of  by  the  gods  and  Cato. 
Juba.     That   Juba    may    deserve    thy   pious 

cares, 

I'll    gaze   forever    on    thy    godlike    father, 
Transplanting,    one    by    one,     into    my     life, 
His     bright     perfections,     till     I     shine     like 

him. 

Mar.     My  father  never,  at  a  time  like  this, 
Would  lay  out  his  great  soul  in  words,  and 

waste 
Such   precious    moments. 

Juba.  Thy  reproofs   are  just, 

Thou     virtuous     maid;     I'll     hasten     to     my 

troops, 
And    fire    their    languid    souls    with    Cato's 

virtue; 

If  e'er  I  lead  them  to  the  field,  when  all 
The  war  shall  stand  ranged  in  its  just  array, 
And    dreadful    pomp;    then    will    I    think    on 

thee! 

O  lovely  maid,  then  will  I  think  on  thee! 
And,    in    the    shock    of    charging    hosts,    re- 
member 
What   glorious   deeds   should   grace   the   man 


who    hopes 
For    Marcia's    love. 


[Exit. 


SCENE    VI 
LUCIA,    MARCIA. 

Luc.  Marcia,    you're    too    severe: 

How     could     you     chide     the     young     good- 
natured   prince, 

206 


CATO 


ACT  I,  Sc.  VI. 


And   drive   him   from    you   with   so    stern   an 

air, 
A   prince    that    loves    and    dotes    on    you    to 

death? 
Mar.     'Tis    therefore,    Lucia,    that    I    chide 

him  from  me. 

His  air,  his  voice,  his  looks,  and  honest  soul 
Speak  all  so  movingly  in  his  behalf. 
I    dare   not    trust   myself    to    hear    him    talk. 
Luc.     Why  will  you  fight  against  so  sweet 

a  passion, 
And    steel    your    heart    to    such    a    world   of 

charms  ? 
Mar.     How,   Lucia,   wouldst  thou  have  me 

sink  away 

In  pleasing  dreams,  and  lose  myself  in  love, 
When  every  moment  Cato's  life's  at  stake? 
Caesar  comes  armed  with  terror  and  revenge, 
And  aims  his  thunder  at  my  father's  head. 
Should  not  the  sad  occasion  swallow  up 
My  other  cares,  and  draw  them  all  into  it? 
Luc.  Why  have  not  I  this  constancy  of 

mind, 

Who  have  so  many  griefs  to  try  its  force? 
Sure,  nature  formed  me  of  her  softest  mould, 
Enfeebled  all  my  soul  with  tender  passions, 
And  sunk  me  ev'n  below  my  own  weak 

sex: 

Pity   and  love,  by   turns,   oppress  my  heart. 
Mar.     Lucia,    disburden    all    thy    cares    on 

me, 

And  let  me  share  thy  most  retired  distress; 

Tell  me  who  raises  up  this  conflict  in  thee? 

Luc.     I    need    not    blush    to    name    them, 

when   I   tell   thee 
They're   Marcia's   brothers,   and  the   sons   of 

Cato. 
Mar.     They    both    behold    thee    with    their 

sister's  eyes, 

And  often  have  revealed  their  passion  to  me. 
But  tell  me  whose  address  thou  favorest 

most; 

I  long   to  know,  and  yet  I  dread  to  hear  it. 
Luc.     Which  is  it  Marcia  wishes  for? 
Mar.  For   neither — 

And    yet    for    both; — the    youths    have    equal 

share 

In   Marcia's  wishes,   and  divide   their  sister: 

But  tell  me,  which  of  them  is  Lucia's  choice. 

Luc.     Marcia,    they    both    are    high   in    my 

esteem, 
But    in    my    love — why    wilt    thou    make    me 

name   him  ? 

Thou  know'st   it  is  a  blind  and  foolish  pas- 
sion, 
Pleased    and    disgusted    with    it    knows    not 

what— 
Mar.     O  Lucia,    I'm   perplexed,  oh  tell   me 

which 

I  must   hereafter  call   my  happy  brother. 
Luc.     Suppose    'twere    Portius,    could    you 

blame  my   choice? 

O  Portius,  thou  hast  stolen  away  my  soul ! 
With  wha* 


And     breathes 
vows! 


the     softest,     the     sincerest 


Complacency,   and    truth,    and  manly    sweet- 
ness 
Dwell    ever   on   his    tongue,   and   smooth    his 

thoughts. 

Marcus   is  over-warm,  his   fond  complaints 
Have    so    much    earnestness   and    passion    in 

them, 

I  hear  him  with  a  secret  kind  of  horror, 
And    tremble    at    his    vehemence    of    temper. 
Mar.     Alas,    poor    youth!    how    canst    thou 

throw  him  from   thee? 
Lucia,    thou    know'st    not    half    the    love    he 

bears  thee; 
Whene'er   he   speaks   of   thee,  his   heart's   in 

flames. 

He    sends    out    all    his    soul    in    every    word, 
And    thinks,    and    talks,    and    looks    like    one 

transported. 

Unhappy  youth!  how  will  thy  coldness  raise 
Tempests  and  storms  in  his  afflicted  bosom! 


dread 

Luc. 


the    consequence. 


Against  your  brother  Portius. 


You  seem  to  plead 


Mar. 


Heaven    forbid ! 


graceful    tenderness   he   loves! 

207 


Had    Portius    been    the    unsuccessful    lover, 
The   same   compassion  would   have   fallen  on 

him. 
Luc.     Was  ever  virgin  love  distressed  like 

mine! 
Portius     himself    oft    falls    in    tears     before 

me, 

As  if  he  mourned  his  rival's  ill  success, 
Then  bids  me  hide  the  motions  of  my  heart, 
Nor  show  which  way  it  turns.    So  much  he 

fears 
The     sad    effects     that     it    would    have    on 

Marcus. 
Mar.     He   knows   too  well  how  easily   he's 

fired, 

And  would  not  plunge  his  brother  in  despair, 
But  waits  for  happier  times,  and  kinder  mo- 
ments. 

Luc.     Alas!  too  late  I  find  myself  involved 
In  endless  griefs,  and  labyrinths  of  woe, 
Born    to   afflict   my   Marcia's    family, 
And  sow  dissension  in  the  hearts  of  brothers. 
Tormenting    thought!   it   cuts   into    my    soul. 
Mar.     Let    us    not,    Lucia,    aggravate    our 

sorrows, 

But  to  the  gods  permit  the  event  of  things. 
Our  lives,  discolored  with  our  present  woes, 
May   still    grow  white,   and   smile  with   hap- 
pier   hours. 
So  the  pure  limpid  stream,  when  foul  with 

stains 

Of  rushing  torrents  and  descending  rains, 
Works   itself   clear,   and   as   it   runs,    refines; 
Till,   by   degrees,    the   floating   mirror   shines, 
Reflects       each    flower    that    on    the    border 

grows, 

And  a  new  heaven   in  its  fair  bosom  shows. 

[Exeunt. 


ACT  II,  Sc.  I. 


CATO 


ACT   II 

SCENE  I 

THE  SENATE. 

SEMPRONIUS,    Lucius. 

Sem.     Rome   still   survives   in   this  assem- 
bled  senate ! 

Let  us  remember  we  are  Cato's   friends, 

And    act    like   men   who   claim    that   glorious 

title. 

Luc.     Cato    will    soon    be    here,    and    open 
to    us 

The    occasion    of    our    meeting.      Hark!    he 
comes!  [A    sound    of   trumpets. 

May   all   the    guardian   gods   of   Rome   direct 
him! 

Enter   CATO. 

Cato.     Fathers,   we  once  again  are  met   in 

council. 

Caesar's  approach  has  summoned  us  together, 
And    Rome    attends    her    fate    from    our    re- 
solves: 

How  shall  we  treat  this  bold,  aspiring  man  ? 
Success  still  follows  him  and  backs  his 

crimes; 

Pharsalia  gave  him  Rome;  Egypt  has  since 
Received  his  yoke,  and  the  whole  Nile  is 

Cesar's. 

Why  should  I  mention  Juba's  overthrow, 
And  Scipio's  death?  Numidia's  burning 

sands 
Still  smoke  with  blood.     'Tis  time  we  should 

decree 
What  course  to  take.     Our  foe  advances  on 

us, 

And  envies  us  even  Libya's  sultry  deserts. 
Fathers,  pronounce  your  thoughts,  are  they 

still  fixed 

To  hold  it  out,  and  fight  it  to  the  last  ? 
Or    are   your   hearts   subdued   at   length,   and 

wrought 

By  time  and  ill  success  to  a  submission? 
Sempronius,  speak. 

San.  My  voice  is  still  for  war. 

Gods,    can    a    Roman    senate   long    debate 
Which    of    the    two    to    choose,    slavery    or 

death! 

No,  let  us  rise  at  once,  gird  on  our  swords, 
And,  at  the  head  of  our  remaining  troops, 
Attack  the  foe,  break  through  the  thick 

array 
Of    his    thronged   legions,    and    charge    home 

upon   him. 
Perhaps    some    arm,    more    lucky    than    the 

rest, 
May    reach    his    heart,    and    free    the    world 

from   bondage. 
Rise,  fathers,  rise!  'tis  Rome   demands   your 

help; 
Rise,   and    revenge   her   slaughtered   citizens, 


Or   share    their    fate!    the   corps    of    half-  her 
senate 

Manure   the   fields  of  Thessaly,  while  we 

Sit    here,    deliberating    in    cold    debates, 

If  we  should  sacrifice  our  lives  to  honor, 

Or  wear   them   out   in    servitude   and   chains. 

Rouse  up,  for  shame!  our  brothers  of  Phar- 
salia 

Point    at    their    wounds,    and    cry    aloud— To 
battle! 

Great    Pompey's    shade    complains    that    we 
are  slow, 

And      Scipio's      ghost       walks      unrevenged 

amongst  us ! 

Cato.     Let     not    a     torrent    of     impetuous 
zeal 

Transport   thee   thus    beyond    the   bounds    of 
reason: 

True  fortitude  is  seen  in  great  exploits, 

That     justice     warrants,     and     that     wisdom 
guides, 

All   else   is   towering   frenzy    and    distraction. 

Are    not    the    lives    of    those    who    draw    the 
sword 

In  Rome's  defence  intrusted  to  our  care? 

Should    we    thus    lead    them     to    a    field    of 
slaughter, 

Might   not    the   impartial   world   with   reason 
say 

We    lavished    at    our    deaths    the    blood    of 
thousands, 

To   grace   our   fall,   and   make   our   ruin    glo- 
rious ? 

Lucius,    we    next    would    know    what's    your 

opinion. 

Luc.     My    thoughts,    I    must    confess,    are 
turned    on    peace. 

Already    have   our   quarrels   filled    the   world 

With    widows     and    with    orphans:     Scythia 
mourns 

Our    guilty    wars,    and    earth's    remotest    re- 
gions 

Lie   half   unpeopled  by   the   feuds  of  Rome: 

'Tis    time    to    sheathe    the    sword,    and    spare 
mankind. 

It   is   not   Caesar,   but  the   gods,   my   fathers, 

The   gods   declare   against   us,   and   repel 

Our    vain    attempts.      To    urge    the    foe    to 
battle, 

(Prompted    by    blind    revenge    and    wild    de- 
spair) 

Were    to    refuse    the    awards    of    Providence, 

And    not    to    rest    in    heaven's   determination. 

Already   have    we   shown   our   love   to   Rome, 

Now  let  us  show  submission  to  the  gods. 

We   took  up  arms,  not  to  revenge  ourselves, 

But   free   the   commonwealth;   when   this   end 
fails, 

Arms    have    no    further    use:    our    country's 
cause, 

That     drew    our     swords,     now     wrests    'em 
from  our  hands, 

And  bids  us  not  delight  in  Roman   blood, 

Unprofitably    shed;   what   men   could   do 


208 


CATO 


ACT  II,  Sc.  II. 


Is  done  already:  heaven  and  earth  will  wit- 
ness, 

If  Rome  must  fall,   that  we  are  innocent. 
Sent.     This  smooth  discourse  and  mild  be- 
havior   oft 

Conceal    a    traitor — something    whispers    me 
All    is    not    right— Cato,    beware   of    Lucius. 

[Aside   to    CATO. 

Cato.  Let  us  appear  nor  rash  nor  diffi- 
dent: 

Immoderate   valor  swells  into  a   fault, 
And   fear,  admitted  into  public  councils, 
Betrays  like  treason.     Let  us  shun  'em  both. 
Fathers,    I    cannot    see    that    our    affairs 
Are    grown    thus    desperate.      We    have    bul- 
warks   round   us; 

Within    our   walls   are    troops   inured   to    toil 
In    Afric's   heats,    and   seasoned   to    the   sun; 
Numidia's    spacious   kingdom   lies  behind   us, 
Ready   to   rise  at  its   young  prince's  call. 
While    there    is    hope,    do    not    distrust    the 

gods; 

But  wait  at  least  till  Caesar's  near  approach 
Force   us   to   yield.     'Twill   never  be  too   late 
To  sue  for  chains  and  own  a  conqueror. 
Why    should    Rome    fall    a    moment    ere    her 

time? 

No,  let  us  draw  her  term  of  freedom  out 
In  its  full  length,  and  spin  it  to  the  last, 
So  shall  we   gain  still   one  day's   liberty; 
And   let  me   perish,   but  in   Cato's   judgment, 
A  day,  an  hour,  of  virtuous  liberty 
Is    worth   a   whole   eternity    in   bondage. 

Enter  MARCUS. 

Mar.  Fathers,  this  moment,  as  I  watched 
the  gates, 

Lodged  on  my  post,  a  herald  is  arrived 

From  Caesar's  camp,  and  with  him  comes 
old  Decius, 

The    Roman   knight;   he    carries   in   his   looks 

Impatience,  and  demands  to  speak  with  Cato. 

Cato.     By     your    permission,     fathers,     bid 

him   enter.  [Exit   MARCUS. 

Decius  was  once  my  friend,  but  other  pros- 
pects 

Have  loosed  those  ties,  and  bound  him  fast 
to  Caesar. 

His  message  may  determine  our  resolves. 


SCENE    II 
DECIUS,  CATO,  ETC. 

Dec.     Caesar  sends  health  to  Cato. — 

Cato.  Could   he  send   it 

To    Cato's    slaughtered    friends,    it    would    be 

welcome. 

Are  not  your  orders   to  address   the  senate? 
Dec.     My    business    is    with    Cato:    Caesar 

sees 

The   straits  to  which  you're   driven;  and,  as 
he  knows 


Cato's   high   worth,   is   anxious   for   your   life. 
Cato.     My    li-"e    is    grafted    on    the    fate   of 

Rome: 
Would    he    save    Cato,    bid    him    spare    his 

country. 

Tell   your  dictator  this:  and   tell   him,  Cato 
Disdains  a  life  which  he  has  power  to  offer. 
Dec.     Rome    and    her    senators    submit    to 

Caesar; 

Her  generals  and  her  consuls  are  no  more, 
Who  checked  his  conquests,  and  denied  his 

triumphs. 

Why   will   not   Cato   be   this   Caesar's   friend? 
Cato.     Those  very  reasons  thou  hast  urged 

forbid  it. 

Dec.     Cato,   I've  orders  to  expostulate 
And    reason    with    you,    as    from    friend    to 

friend : 
Think  on  the   storm   that  gathers   o'er  your 

head, 

And  threatens  every  hour  to  burst  upon  it; 
Still  may  you  stand  high  in  your  country's 

honors, 
Do   but   comply,   and  make  your  peace   with 

Caesar. 

Rome  will  rejoice,  and  cast  its  eyes  on  Cato, 
As  on  the  second  of  mankind. 

Cat o.  No    more ! 

I  must  not  think  of  life   on  such  conditions. 
Dec.     Caesar   is   well  acquainted   with   your 

virtues, 

And   therefore   sets    this   value  on    your  life: 
Let  him  but  know  the  price  of  Cato's  friend- 
ship, 
And   name  your   terms. 

Cato.  Bid   him   disband   his   legions; 

Restore   the   commonwealth   to   liberty, 
Submit    his    actions    to    the    public    censure, 
And  stand  the  judgment  of  a  Roman  senate: 
Bid  him  do  this,  and  Cato  is  his  friend. 
Dec.     Cato,  the  world  talks  loudly  of  your 

wisdom — 
Cato.     Nay  more,  though  Cato's  voice  was 

ne'er   employed 

To  clear  the  guilty,  and  to  varnish  crimes, 
Myself  will  mount  the  rostrum  in  his  favor, 
And  strive  to  gain  his  pardon  from  the 

people. 

Dec.     A    style    like    this    becomes    a    con- 
queror. 
Cato.     Decius,  a  style  like  this  becomes  a 

Roman. 
Dec.     What   is   a   Roman,   that   is   Caesar's 

foe? 
Cato.     Greater    than    Caesar,    he's   a    friend 

to  virtue. 

Dec.     Consider,   Cato,  you're  in  Utica, 
And   at   the   head  of   your  own  little   senate; 
You   don't   now    thunder   in    the   Capitol, 
With  all  the  mouths  of  Rome  to  second  you. 
Cato.     Let   him    consider    that   who    drives 

us  hither: 

'Tis  Caesar's  sword  has  made  Rome's  senate 
little, 


209 


ACT  II,  Sc.  IV. 


CATO 


And    thinned    its    ranks.     Alas!    thy   dazzled 

eye 

Beholds  this  man  in  a  false  glaring  light, 
Which    conquest    and    success    have    thrown 

upon  him; 
Didst  thou  but  view  him  right,  thou'dst  see 

him  black 

With  murder,   treason,  sacrilege,  and  crimes 
That    strike    my    soul    with    horror    but    to 

name  'em. 

I   know  thou   look'st  on  me,  as  on  a  wretch 
Beset    with    ills,    and    covered    with    misfor- 
tunes ; 

But,  by  the  gods  I  swear,  millions  of  worlds 

Should  never  buy  me  to  be  like  that  Caesar. 

Dec.     Does  Cato  send  this  answer  back  to 

Cesar, 
For    all    his    generous    cares,    and    proffered 

friendship  ? 
Cato.     His   cares   for   me  are   insolent   and 

vain: 
Presumptuous   man!    the   gods    take    care   of 

Cato. 

Would  Caesar  show  the  greatness  of  his  soul, 
Bid  him  employ  his  care  for  these  my  friends, 
And  make   good  use  of  his  ill-gotten  power, 
By    sheltering   men   much   better    than   him- 
self. 
Dec.     Your  high  unconquered  heart  makes 

you  forget 

You  are  a  man.    You  rush  on  your  destruc- 
tion— 

But    I   have   done.     When    I   relate   hereafter 
The  tale   of  this  unhappy  embassy, 
All  Rome  will  be  in  tears.  [Exit  DECIUS. 

SCENE    III 
SEMPRONIUS,   Lucius,   CATO,   ETC. 

Sem.  Cato,  we  thank  thee. 

The   mighty  genius  of  immortal   Rome 
Speaks     in     thy     voice,     thy     soul     breathes 

liberty: 
Caesar   will    shrink    to   hear   the   words    thou 

utterest, 

And    shudder   in    the   midst   of    all   his    con- 
quests. 
Luc.     The    senate    owns    its    gratitude    to 

Cato, 

Who  with  so  great  a  soul  consults  its  safety, 
And  guards  our  lives,  while  he  neglects  his 

own. 
Sem.     Sempronius  gives  no  thanks  on  this 

account. 

Lucius  seems  fond  of  life;  but  what  is  life? 
'Tis  not  to  stalk  about,  and  draw  fresh  air 
From  time  to  time,  or  gaze  upon  the  sun; 
Tis  to  be  free.  When  liberty  is  gone, 
Life  grows  insipid,  and  has  lost  its  relish. 
Oh,  could  my  dying  hand  but  lodge  a  sword 
In  Caesar's  bosom,  and  revenge  my  country, 
By  heavens,  I  could  enjoy  the  pangs  of 

death, 
And  smile  in  agony. 


Luc.  Others    perhaps 

May  serve  their  country  with  as  warm  a  zeal, 
Though  'tis  not  kindled  into  so   much  rage. 
Sem.     This  sober  conduct  is  a  mighty  vir- 
tue 
In   lukewarm  patriots. 

Cato.  Come!   no    more,   Sempronius, 

All   here  are    friends    to   Rome,   and   to  each 

other. 

Let  us  not  weaken  still   the  weaker  side 
By    our    divisions. 

Sem.  Cato,    my    resentments 

Are    sacrificed    to    Rome — I    stand    reproved. 
Cato.     Fathers,    'tis    time    you    come    to    a 

resolve. 

Luc.     Cato,   we   all   go  into  your   opinion, 
Caesar's    behavior   has    convinced    the    senate 
We   ought   to   hold  it  out   till   terms    arrive. 
Sem.     We  ought  to  hold  it  out  till  death; 

but,  Cato, 

My  private  voice  is   drowned  amid  the  sen- 
ate's. 
Cato.     Then   let    us   rise,    my   friends,    and 

strive  to  fill 

This   little    interval,   this   pause   of    life, 
(While  yet  our  liberty  and  fates  are  doubt- 
ful) * 
With  resolution,  friendship,   Roman  bravery, 
And   all    the   virtues   we   can    crowd   into    it; 
That   heaven   may   say,   it  ought   to   be   pro- 
longed. 
Fathers,      farewell — The      young      Numidian 

prince 

Comes    forward,    and    expects    to    know    our 
counsels. 

SCENE    IV 
CATO,   JUBA. 

Cato.     Juba,    the    Roman    Senate    has    re- 
solved, 

Till  time  give  better  prospects,  still  to  keep' 
The  sword  unsheathed,  and  turn  its  edge  on 

Caesar. 

Juba.     The  resolution  fits  a  Roman  senate. 

But,  Cato,  lend  me  for  a  while  thy  patience, 

And  condescend  to  hear  a  young  man  speak. 

My    father,    when    some    days    before    his 

death 

He  ordered  me  to  march  for  Utica, 
(Alas!  I  thought  not  then  his  death  so  near) 
Wept  o'er  me,  pressed  me  in  his  aged  arms, 
And,  as  his  griefs  gave  way,  "  My  son,"  said 

he, 

"  Whatever  fortune  shall  befall  thy  father, 
Be  Cato's  friend;  he'll  train  thee  up  to  great 
And  virtuous  deeds:  do  but  observe  him 

well, 
Thou'lt  shun  misfortunes,  or  thou'lt  learn  to 

bear   'em." 
Cato.     Juba,     thy     father     was     a     worthy 

prince, 

And  merited,  alas!  a  better  fate; 
But   heaven  thought  otherwise. 


210 


CATO 


ACT  II,  Sc.  V. 


Juba.  My   father's  fate, 

In  spite  of  all  the  fortitude  that  shines 
Before  my   face,  in  Cato's  great   example, 
Subdues    my    soul,    and    fills    my    eyes    with 

tears. 

Cato.     It    is    an    honest    sorrow,    and    be- 
comes thee. 
Juba.     My   father   drew   respect   from   for- 
eign climes: 
The    kings    of    Afric    sought    him    for    their 

friend; 

Kings  far  remote,  that  rule,  as  fame  reports, 
Behind   the   hidden   sources   of   the    Nile, 
In    distant   worlds,   on   t'other   side   the    sun: 
Oft   have   their   black   embassadors   appeared, 
Loaden    with    gifts,   and   filled   the    courts   of 

Zama. 
Cato.     I    am    no    stranger    to    thy    father's 

greatness. 
Juba.     I   would  not  boast  the  greatness  of 

my  father, 

But  point  out  new  alliances  to  Cato. 
Had  we   not  better  leave   this  Utica, 
To   arm    Numidia   in   our  cause,    and   court 
The     assistance     of     my     father's     powerful 

friends  ? 

Did  they  know  Cato,  our  remotest  kings 
Would  pour  embattled  multitudes  about  him; 
Their    swarthy    hosts   would    darken   all   our 

plains, 

Doubling  the  native  horror  of  the  war, 
And    making    death    more   grim. 

Cato.  And   canst  thou   think 

Cato  will  fly  before  the  sword  of  Caesar? 
Reduced,    like   Hannibal,   to  seek  relief 
From    court    to    court,    and    wander    up    and 

down, 
A  vagabond  in  Afric! 

Juba.  Cato,    perhaps 

I'm   too  officious,  but  my  forward   cares 
Would  fain  preserve  a  life  of  so  much  value. 
My    heart     is    wounded,     when     I     see     such 

virtue 
Afflicted  by  the  weight  of  such  misfortunes. 

Cato.     Thy  nobleness  of  soul  obliges  me. 
But    know,    young    prince,    that    valor    soars 

above 

What  the  world  calls   misfortune  and  afflic- 
tion. 

These  are  not  ills;  else  would  they  never  fall 
On   heaven's   first   favorites,   and   the  best   of 

men: 
The  gods,  in  bounty,  work  up   storms  about 

us, 

That    give    mankind    occasion    to    exert 
Their   hidden   strength,    and   throw    out    into 

practice 

Virtues   that  shun  the  day,  and  lie  concealed 

In  the  smooth  seasons  and  the  calms  of  life. 

Juba.     I'm   charmed  whene'er  thou   talk'st! 

I  pant  for  virtue 

And  all  my  soul  endeavors  at  perfection. 
Cato.     Dost     thou     love     watchings,     absti- 
nence,   and    toil, 


Laborious  virtues  all?  learn  them  from  Cato: 
Success    and   fortune   must    thou   learn   from 
Caesar. 

Juba.     The  best  good  fortune  that  can  fall 

on  Juba, 

The  whole  success  at  which  my  heart  aspires, 
Depends  on  Cato. 

Cato.  What    does    Juba    say? 

Thy  words  confound  me. 

Juba.  I    would   fain   retract   them, 

Give  'em  back  again.    They  aimed  at  nothing. 

Cato.     Tell    me    thy    wish,    young    prince; 

make  not  my  ear 
A   stranger  to  thy  thoughts. 

Juba.  Oh!  they're  extravagant; 

Still    let    me    hide    them. 

Cato.  What    can    Juba   ask 

That   Cato   will   refuse? 

Juba.  I   fear   to  name  it. 

Marcia — inherits   all   her   father's   virtues. 

Cato.     What   wouldst   thou    say? 

Juba.  Cato,  thou  hast  a  daughter. 

Cato.       Adieu,  young  prince;   I   would  not 

hear  a  word 

Should  lessen  thee  in  my  esteem:  remember 
The  hand  of  fate  is  over  us,  and  heaven 
Exacts   severity   from  all   our   thoughts: 
It  is  not  now  a  time  to  talk  of  aught 
But  chains  or  conquest,  liberty  or  death. 

SCENE  V 
SYPHAX,    JUBA. 

Syph.     How's   this,   my   prince,   what!  cov- 
ered with   confusion? 
You  look  as  if  yon  stern  philosopher 
Had  just   now   chid  you. 

Juba.  Syphax,    I'm    undone! 

Syph.     I   know   it   well. 

Juba.  Cato  thinks  meanly  of  me. 

Syph.     And   so    will   all    mankind. 
Juba.  I've  opened  to  him 

The     weakness    of    my    soul,    my    love     for 

Marcia. 

Syph.     Cato's   a   proper   person    to   intrust 
A  love-tale  with! 

Juba.  Oh !    I    could   pierce   my   heart, 

My     foolish     heart!    was     ever    wretch    like 

Juba? 
Syph.     Alas!     my     prince,     how    are     you 

changed   of    late ! 

I've  known   young  Juba  rise  before  the   sun, 
To   beat    the    thicket   where    the    tiger    slept, 
Or  seek  the  lion  in  his  dreadful  haunts: 
How  did   the   color   mount  into  your    cheeks, 
When    first    you    roused    him    to    the    chase! 

I've  seen  you, 
Even     in     the    Libyan    dog-days,    hunt     him 

down, 
Then   charge  him   close,  provoke  him   to  the 

rage 
Of  fangs  and  claws,  and  stooping  from  your 

horse 
Rivet  the  panting  savage  to  the  ground. 


211 


ACT  II,  Sc.  V. 


CATO 


Juba.     Prithee,   no  more! 
Syph.  How  would  the  old  king  smile 

To    see    you    weigh    the    paws,    when    tipped 

with  gold, 
And    throw    the    shaggy    spoils    about    your 

shoulders ! 
Juba.     Syphax,  this  old  man's  talk  (though 

honey  flowed 

In  every  word)  would  now  lose  all  its  sweet- 
ness. 

Cato's    displeased,    and    Marcia    lost    forever! 
Syph.     Young  prince,  I  yet  could  give  you 

good  advice. 
Marcia  might  still  be  yours. 

Juba.  What    say'st   thou,    Syphax? 

By  heavens,  thou   turn'st  me  all  into  atten- 
tion. 

Syph.     Marcia    might    still    be    yours. 
Juba.  As  how,  dear  Syphax? 

Syph.     Juba    commands    Numidia's    hardy 

troops, 

Mounted  on  steeds,  unused  to  the  restraint 
Of  curbs  or  bits,  and  fleeter  than  the  winds: 
Give  but  the  word,  we'll  snatch  this  damsel 

up 
And  bear  her  off. 

Juba.  Can  such  dishonest  thoughts 

Rise    up    in    man!   wouldst    thou    seduce    my 

youth 

To  do  an  act  that  would  destroy  my  honor? 
Syph.     Gods!    I    could    tear    my    beard    to 

hear  you  talk ! 

Honor's  a  fine  imaginary  notion, 
That   draws   in    raw    and   unexperienced   men 
To  real  mischiefs,  while  they  hunt  a  shadow. 
Juba.     Wouldst    thou    degrade    thy    prince 

into    a   ruffian? 
Syph.     The     boasted     ancestors     of     these 

great    men, 
Whose    virtues    you    admire,    were    all    such 

ruffians. 

This  dread  of  nations,  this  almighty  Rome, 
That  comprehends  in  her  wide  empire's 

bounds 

All  under  heaven,  was  founded  on  a  rape. 
Your  Scipios,  Caesars,  Pompeys,  and  your 

Catos, 
(These    gods   on  earth)    are   all   the   spurious 

brood 

Of  violated   maids,   of  ravished   Sabines. 
Juba.     Syphax,    I   fear    that   hoary   head   of 

thine 

Abounds    too   much   in   our   Numidian   wiles. 
Syph.     Indeed,    my     prince,    you    want     to 

know   the   world; 

You  have  not  read  mankind;  your  youth  ad- 
mires 

The  throws  and  swellings  of  a  Roman  soul, 
Cato's  bold  flights,  the  extravagance  of 

virtue. 
Juba.     If    knowledge    of    the    world    makes 

man   perfidious, 

May  Juba  ever  live  in  ignorance! 
Syph.     Go,    go,   you're   young. 


Juba. 


Gods !  must  I  tamely  bear 


This  arrogance  unanswered!  thou'rt  a  traitor, 
A   false   old   traitor. 

Syph.  1   have  gone   too   far. 

[Aside. 
Juba.     Cato    shall    know    the    baseness    of 

thy  soul. 

Syph.     I  must  appease  this  storm,  or  per- 
ish   in    it.  [Aside. 
Young    prince,    behold    these    locks    that    are 

grown   white 

Beneath  a  helmet  in  your  father's  battles. 
Juba.     Those   locks   shall  ne'er  protect   thy 

insolence. 
Syph.     Must  one  rash  word,   the   infirmity 

of    age, 

Throw   down  the  merit  of  my  better  years? 

This    the   reward   of  a   whole   life   of   service! 

Curse    on    the    boy!    how    steadily    he    hears 

me!  [Aside. 

Juba.     Is    it    because    the    throne    of    my 

forefathers 
Still     stands     unfilled,     and     that     Numidia's 

crown 

Hangs  doubtful  yet,  whose  head  it  shall  en- 
close, 
Thou    thus    presumest    to    treat    thy    prince 

with    scorn  ? 
Syph.     Why   will    you   rive   my   heart   with 

such   expressions  ? 

Does  not  old  Syphax  follow  you  to  war? 
What  are  his  aims?  why  does   he   load  with 

darts 
His    trembling    hand,    and    crush    beneath    a 

casque 
His   wrinkled   brows?   what   is   it   he  aspires 

to? 

Is  it  not  this,  to  shed  the  slow  remains, 
His  last  poor  ebb  of  blood,  in  your  defense? 
Juba.     Syphax,  no  more !    I  would  not  hear 

you    talk. 
Syph.     Not  hear  me  talk !  what,   when  my 

faith  to  Juba, 

My    royal    master's    son,    is    called    in    ques- 
tion? 
My   prince  may   strike  me   dead,   and   I'll  be 

dumb: 
But    whilst    I    live,    I    must    not     hold    my 

tongue, 

And  languish  out  old  age  in  his  displeasure. 
Juba.     Thou  know'st  the  way  too  well  into 

my  heart, 
I  do  believe  thee  loyal  to  thy  prince. 

Syph.     What  greater  instance  can  I   give? 

I've    offered 

To  do  an  action,  which  my  soul  abhors, 
And     gain     you     whom     you     love     at     any 

price. 
Juba.     Was  this  thy  motive?     I  have  been 

too   hasty. 
Syph.     And    'tis    for    this    my    prince    has 

called    me    traitor. 

Juba.     Sure  thou  mistakest;   I   did  not  call 
thee  so. 


212 


CATO 


ACT  II,  Sc.  VI. 


Syph.     You    did    indeed,    my    prince,    you 

called  me  traitor: 
Nay,   further,    threatened   you'd   complain    to 

Cato. 
Of  what,   my  prince,  would  you  complain   to 

Cato? 

That   Syphax   loves   you,   and  would   sacrifice 
His  life,  nay,  more,  his  honor  in  your  serv- 
ice. 
Jitha.     Syphax,  I  know  thou  lov'st  me,  but 

indeed 

Thy  zeal  for  Juba  carried  thee  too  far. 
Honor's   a   sacred    tie,    the   law    of   kings, 
The    noble    mind's    distinguishing    perfection, 
That    aids    and    strengthens    virtue   where    it 

meets  her, 

And  imitates   her  actions,  where   she  is  not: 
It  ought   not  to  be  sported   with. 

Syph.  By    heavens, 

I'm    ravished    when    you    talk    thus,    though 

you  chide  me! 

Alas!   I've   hitherto  been    used   to   think 
A  blind,  officious  zeal  to  serve  my  king 
The  ruling  principle  that  ought  to  burn 
And   quench   all  others   in  a   subject's   heart. 
Happy   the  people,  who  preserve   their  honor 
By  the  same  duties  that  oblige  their  prince ! 
Juba.     Syphax,  thou  now  begin'st  to  speak 

thyself. 

Numidia's  grown  a  scorn  among  the  nations 
For  breach  of  public  vows.     Our  Punic  faith 
Is   infamous,   and   branded  to   a  proverb. 
Syphax,   we'll  join  our  cares,   to  purge   away 
Our   country's    crimes,    and    clear    her    repu- 
tation. 
Syph.     Believe    me,    prince,    you    make   old 

Syphax   weep 
To    hear    you    talk — but    'tis    with    tears    of 

joy. 

If  e'er  your  father's  crown  adorn  your  brows, 
Numidia  will   be  blest  by  Cato's  lectures. 
Juba.     Syphax,    thy    hand!    we'll    mutually 

forget 
The    warmth    of    youth,    and    frowardness    of 

age: 
Thy  prince  esteems  thy  worth,  and  loves  thy 

person. 

If  e'er  the  scepter  conies  into  my  hand, 
Syphax   shall  stand   the   second  in   my  king- 
dom. 
Syph.     Why    will    you    overwhelm    my    age 

with    kindness  ? 
My   joy  grows  burdensome,   I   shan't   support 

it. 
Juba.     Syphax,     farewell,     I'll     hence,     and 

try  to   find 

Some   blest  occasion    that   may   set  me   right 
In    Cato's    thoughts.      I'd    rather    have    that 

man 

Approve  my   deeds,   than  worlds   for  my  ad- 
mirers. [Exit. 
Syph.    solus.     Young    men    soon    give,    and 

soon  forget  affronts; 
Old  age  is  slow  in  both— A  false  old  traitor! 


Those  words,  rash   boy,  may   chance  to  cost 

thee  dear. 
My  heart  had  still  some  foolish  fondness  for 

thee: 

But  hence!  'tis  gone:  I  give  it  to  the  winds: 
Caesar,    I'm    wholly    thine — 


SCENE    VI 
SYPHAX,  SEMPRONIUS. 

Syph.  All   hail,   Sempronius! 

Well,    Cato's   senate   is  resolved   to  wait 
The  fury  of  a  siege  before  it  yields. 

Scin.     Syphax,  we  both  were  on  the  verge 

of  fate: 
Lucius    declared   for   peace,    and   terms    were 

offered 

To  Cato  by  a  messenger  from  Caesar. 
Should  they  submit,  ere  our  designs  are  ripe, 
We  both  must  perish  in  the  common  wreck, 
Lost   in   a   general,    undistinguished   ruin. 

Syph.     But   how   stands  Cato? 

Sent.  Thou  hast  seen  Mount  Atlas: 

While    storms   and   tempests   thunder   on   its 

brows, 

And  oceans  break  their  billows  at  its  feet, 
It  stands  unmoved,  and  glories  in  its  height. 
Such  is  that  haughty  man;  his  towering 

soul, 

'Midst  all  the  shocks  and  injuries  of  fortune, 
Rises  superior,  and  looks  down  on  Caesar. 

Syph.     But   what's    this    messenger? 

Seni.  I've    practised    with    him, 

And   found   a  means   to   let   the   victor   know 
That  Syphax  and  Sempronius  are  his  friends. 
But    let    me    now    examine    in   my   turn: 
Is   Juba  fixed? 

Syph.  Yes— but  it  is  to  Cato. 

I've  tried  the  force  of  every  reason  on  him, 
Soothed  and  caressed,  been  angry,  soothed 

again, 

Laid    safety,   life,    and   interest    in    his    sight, 
But    all    are    vain,    he    scorns    them    all    for 
Cato. 

>•>;;;.     Come,    'tis    no    matter,    we    shall    do 

without   him. 

He'll  make  a  pretty  figure  in  a  triumph, 
And  serve  to  trip  before  the  victor's  chariot. 
Syphax,   I   now  may   hope   thou    hast   forsook 
Thy  Juba's  cause,  and  wishest   Marcia  mine. 

Syph.     May   she   be    thine   as   fast   as   thou 
wouldst    have   her ! 

Si' in.     Syphax,  I  love  that  woman;   though 

I    curse 
Her  and  myself,  yet,  spite  of  me,  I  love  her. 

Syph.  Make  Cato  sure,  and  give  up  Utica, 
Caesar  will  ne'er  refuse  thee  such  a  trifle. 
But  are  thy  troops  prepared  for  a  revolt? 
Does  the  sedition  catch  from  man  to  man, 
And  run  among  their  ranks? 

Sem.  All,   all   is   ready. 

The    factious    leaders    are    our    friends,    that 
spread 


ACT  III,  Sc.  I. 


CATO 


Murmurs    and    discontents    among    the    sol- 
diers. 
They    count    their    toilsome    marches,    long 

fatigues, 

Unusual  fastings,  and  will  bear  no  more 
This   medley   of  philosophy  and  war. 
Within    an    hour    they'll    storm    the    senate- 
house. 
Syph.     Meanwhile  I'll  draw  up  my  Numid- 

ian    troops 

Within    the    square,    to   exercise    their   arms, 
And,   as   I    see  occasion,   favor  thee. 
I    laugh    to    think    how    your   unshaken    Cato 
Will   look  aghast,   while  unforeseen   destruc- 
tion 

Pours  in  upon  him  thus  from  every  side. 
So,  where  our  wide  Numidian  wastes  extend, 
Sudden,    the    impetuous    hurricanes    descend, 
Wheel    through    the    air,    in    circling    eddies 

play, 
Tear  up   the   sanjds,  and   sweep   whole  plains 

away. 

The    helpless    traveller,    with    wild    surprise, 
Sees   the  dry  desert  all  around   him  rise, 
And  smothered  in  the  dusty  whirlwind  dies. 

ACT    III 

SCENE  I 
MARCUS,  PORTIUS. 

Mar.     Thanks    to    my    stars,    I    have    not 
ranged   about 

The   wilds   of  life,   ere   I   could   find  a   friend; 

Nature   first  pointed  out  my  Portius  to  me, 

And   early    taught   me,   by   her   secret   force, 

To   love    thy   person,   ere   I   knew  thy  merit; 

Till,  what  was  instinct,  grew  up  into  friend- 
ship. 

Par.     Marcus,  the  friendships  of  the  world 
are  oft 

Confederacies  in  vice,  or  leagues  of  pleasure; 

Ours   has   severest   virtue   for   its   basis, 

And    such    a    friendship    ends    not    but    with 

life. 

Mar.     Portius,    thou    know'st    my    soul    in 
all   its  weakness; 

Then    prithee    spare    me    on    its    tender    side, 

Indulge   me  but    in   love,   my   other   passions 

Shall   rise   and   fall   by   virtue's   nicest   rules. 
For.     When    love's    well-timed,    'tis    not    a 
fault   to    love. 

The  strong  the  brave,   the  virtuous,  and  the 
wise 

Sink  in  the  soft  captivity   together. 

I   would   not   urge   thee   to   dismiss    thy   pas- 
sion, 

(I    know    'twere    vain)    but    to    suppress    its 
force, 

Till    better    times    may    make    it    look    more 

graceful. 

Mar.     Alas!     thou     talk'st    like     one    who 
never  felt 

The  impatient  throbs  and  longings  of  a  soul 


That  pants  and  reaches  after  distant  good. 
A  lover  does  not  live  by  vulgar  time: 
Believe  me,  Portius,  in  my  Lucia's  absence 
Life  hangs  upon  me,  and  becomes  a  burden; 
And  yet,  when  I  behold  the  charming  maid, 
I'm  ten  times  more  undone;  while  hope,  and 

fear, 
And    grief,    and    rage,    and    love,    rise    up   at 

once, 

And   with   variety   of   pain    distract   me. 
Par.     What    can    thy    Portius    do    to    give 

thee   help? 
Mar.     Portius,    thou    oft    enjoy'st    the    fair 

one's    presence: 
Then    undertake    my    cause,   and   plead   it   to 

her 

With  all  the  strength  and  heats  of  eloquence 
Fraternal  love  and  friendship  can  inspire. 
Tell    her    thy    brother    languishes    to    death, 
And   fades  away,   and  withers   in   his   bloom; 
That    he   forgets    his    sleep,    and    loathes    his 

food, 
That  youth,  and  health,  and  war,  are  joyless 

to  him. 
Describe     his     anxious     days     and     restless 

nights, 
And    all    the    torments    that    thou    seest    me 

suffer. 
Par.     Marcus,   I   beg  thee   give  me  not  an 

office 
That  suits  with  me  so  ill.    Thou  know'st  my 

temper. 
Mar.     Wilt    thou    behold    me     sinking     in 

my  woes? 

And  wilt  thou  not  reach  out  a  friendly  arm, 
To  raise  me  from  amidst  this  plunge  of 

sorrows  ? 
Par.     Marcus,    thou    canst    not    ask    what 

I'd  refuse. 

But   here,   believe   me,   I've   a   thousand   rea- 
sons— 
Mar.     I  know  thou'lt  say  my  passion's  out 

of   season; 

That  Cato's  great  example  and  misfortunes 
Should  both  conspire  to  drive  it  from  my 

thoughts. 

But  what's  all  this  to  one  who  loves  like  me! 
Oh,  Portius,  Portius,  from  my  soul  I  wish 
Thou  didst  but  know  thyself  what  'tis  to 

love! 
Then     wouldst     thou     pity     and     assist     thy 

brother. 
Par.     What  should  I  do?    If  I  disclose  my 

passion, 

Our  friendship's  at  an  end:  if  I  conceal  it, 
The  world  will  call  me  false  to  a  friend  and 

brother.  [Aside. 

Mar.     But  see  where  Lucia,  at  her  wonted 

hour, 

Amid  the  cool   of  yon  high  marble  arch, 
Enjoys    the    noon-day    breeze!    observe    her, 

Portius ! 
That     face,     that     shape,     those     eyes,     that 

heaven   of  beauty! 


214 


CATO 


ACT  III,  Sc.  II. 


Observe    her    well,    and    blame    me,    if    thou 

canst. 

For.     She  sees  us,  and  advances — 
Mar.  I'll   withdraw, 

And     leave     you     for     awhile.       Remember, 

Portius, 
Thy  brother's  life  depends  upon  thy  tongue. 

SCENE    II 
LUCIA,    PORTIUS. 
Lnc.     Did  not  I   see  your  brother  Marcus 

here? 
Why    did    he    fly    the    place,    and    shun    my 

presence? 
Par.     Oh,   Lucia,   language   is  too   faint   to 

show 

His  rage  of  love;  it  preys  upon  his  life; 
He   pines,    he   sickens,   he   despairs,    he    dies: 
His    passions    and    his    virtues    lie    confused, 
And  mixed  together  in  so  wild  a  tumult, 
That    the    whole   man   is   quite   disfigured    in 

him. 
Heavens!    would    one    think    'twere    possible 

for  love 

To   make   such   ravage   in  a  noble  soul! 
Oh,  Lucia,  I'm  distrest!  my  heart  bleeds  for 

him; 
Ev'n   now,   while   thus   I   stand  blest   in    thy 

presence, 
A    secret     damp     of     grief    comes     o'er    my 

thoughts, 
And  I'm  unhappy,  though  thou  smil'st  upon 

me. 
Luc.     How   wilt   thou  guard  thy  honor,  in 

the  shock 
Of    love    and   friendship!   think   betimes,    my 

Portius, 

Think  how  the  nuptial  tie,  that  might  insure 
Our    mutual    bliss,    would    raise    to    such    a 

height 

Thy   brother's   griefs,   as   might  perhaps   de- 
stroy   him. 
For.     Alas,    poor    youth!    what    dost    thou 

think,  my  Lucia? 

His  generous,  open,  undesigning  heart 
Has  begged  his  rival  to  solicit  for  him. 
Then   do  not   strike  him  dead  with   a   denial, 
But  hold  him  up   in  life,  and   cheer   his   soul 
With    the    faint    glimmering    of    a    doubtful 

hope: 
Perhaps,  when  we  have  passed  these  gloomy 

hours, 
And    weathered    out    the    storm    that    beats 

upon   us — 
Luc.     No,    Portius,   no!     I   see   thy   sister's 

tears, 
Thy     father's     anguish,     and     thy     brother's 

death, 

In    the    pursuit    of    our    ill-fated    loves. 
And,    Portius,    here    I    swear,    to    heaven    I 

swear, 
To    heaven,    and    all    the    powers    that    judge 

mankind, 


Never  to  mix  my  plighted  hands  with  thine, 
While     such     a     cloud    of     mischiefs     hangs 

about  us, 

But   to  forget  our  loves,   and  drive  thee  out 
From  all  my  thoughts,  as  far — as  I  am  able. 
For.     What  hast  thou  said!    I'm  thunder- 
struck ! — recall 

Those  hasty  words,   or   I   am   lost  for  ever. 
Lnc.     Has  not  the  vow  already  passed  my 

lips? 
The   gods  have   heard   it,   and   'tis    sealed   in 

heaven. 

May  all  the  vengeance  that  was  ever  poured 
On  perjured  heads  o'erwhelm  me,  if  I  break 

it! 
Par.     Fixed  in   astonishment,   I   gaze  upon 

thee; 
Like    one    just    blasted    by    a    stroke    from 

heaven, 

Who  pants  for  breath,  and  stiffens,  yet  alive, 
In   dreadful    looks — a   monument    of    wrath! 
Luc.     At    length    I've    acted    my    severest 

part, 

I   feel  the  woman  breaking  in  upon  me. 
And    melt    about    my    heart!    my    tears    will 

flow. 

But  oh  I'll  think  no  more!  the  hand  of  fate 
Has    torn   thee  from  me,  and   I  must   forget 

thee. 

Par.     Hard-hearted,    cruel    maid! 
Luc.  Oh  stop  those   sounds, 

Those  killing  sounds!  why   dost   thou  frown 

upon  me? 
My    blood    runs    cold,    my    heart    forgets    to 

heave, 

And   life   itself   goes  out   at   thy   displeasure. 
The  gods  forbid  us   to  indulge  our  loves, 
But  oh!  I  cannot  bear  thy  hate  and  live! 
Par.     Talk  not  of  love,  thou  never  knew'st 

its    force, 

I've   been   deluded,  led  into   a  dream 
Of  fancied   bliss.     Oh   Lucia,   cruel   maid! 
Thy   dreadful   vow,    loaden    with    death,    still 

sounds 
In   my   stunned   ears.     What   shall   I    say   or 

do? 

Quick,  let   us   part!  perdition's   in   thy  pres- 
ence, 
And     horror     dwells    about    thee! — hah,     she 

faints ! 
Wretch   that   I    am!   what    has   my   rashness 

done! 

Lucia,   thou   injured  innocence!  thou  best 
And  loveliest  of   thy   sex !   awake,    my   Lucia, 
Or    Portius    rushes    on    his    sword    to    join 

thee. 

— Her    imprecations   reach    not    to    the   tomb, 
They  shut  not  out  society  in  death — 
But,   hah !   she    moves !   life   wanders   up   and 

down 
Through    all   her    face,    and    lights    up    every 

charm. 
Luc.     O  Portius,  was  this  well! — to  frown 

on  her 


215 


ACT  III,  Sc.  III. 


CATO 


That  lives  upon  thy  smiles!  to  call  in  doubt 

The   faith    of   one    expiring   at    thy    feet, 

That    loves     thee     more    than    ever    woman 
loved!  i* 

—What  do  I  say?  my  half-recovered  sense 

Forgets  the  vow  in  which  my  soul  is  bound. 

Destruction  stands  betwixt  us!  we  must  part. 
For.     Name    not    the    word,     my    frighted 
thoughts    run    back, 

And   startle  into  madness   at   the  sound. 
Luc.     What    wouldst    thou    have    me    do? 
consider    well 

The    train    of    ills    our   love   would   draw    be- 
hind it. 

Think,   Portius,   think,   thou   seest   thy   dying 
brother 

Stabbed     at     his     heart,     and    all    besmeared 
with   blood, 

Storming    at    heaven    and    thee!    thy    awful 
sire 

Sternly    demands    the    cause,    the    accursed 
cause, 

That    robs    him    of    his     son !    poor    Marcia 
trembles, 

Then     tears     her    hair,    and     frantic     in    her 
griefs 

Calls   out  on   Lucia!     What  could  Lucia   an- 
swer? 

Or    how    stand    up    in    such   a   scene   of   sor- 
row? 
For.     To   my   confusion   and   eternal    grief, 

I    must    approve   the    sentence   that    destroys 
me. 

The   mist  that  hung   about   my   mind   clears 
up; 

And  now,  athwart  the  terrors  that  thy  vow 

Has  planted  round  thee,  thou  appear'st  more 
fair, 

More  amiable,  and  risest  in   thy  charms. 

Loveliest   of   women !  heaven   is  in   thy    soul, 

Beauty  and  virtue  shine  for  ever  round  thee, 

Brightening   each   other!  thou  art  all  divine! 
Luc.     Portius,   no   more!    thy   words    shoot 
through   my    heart, 

Melt   my   resolves,   and   turn   me   all   to   love. 

Why    are    those    tears    of    fondness    in    thy 
eyes? 

Why    heaves    thy    heart?      Why    swells    thy 
soul    with    sorrow  ? 

It   softens    me   too   much — farewell,    my    Por- 
tius, 

Farewell,    though   death   is   in   the  word,   for- 
ever. 
For.     Stay,    Lucia,    stay!    what    dost    thou 

say  ?    Forever  ? 

Luc.     Have   I    not   sworn?   if,    Portius,    thy 
success 

Must    throw   thy   brother   on   his    fate,    fare- 
well— 

Oh,   how   shall    I   repeat   the   word  ?— forever ! 
/'."•.     Thus    o'er    the    dying    lamp    the    un- 
steady flame 

Hangs  quivering  on  a  point,  leaps  off  by  fits, 

And  falls  again,  as  loth  to  quit  its  hold. 


Thou  must  not  go,  my  soul  still  hovers  o'er 

thee, 
And  can't  get  loose. 

Luc.  If    the    firm    Portius    shake 

To  hear  of  parting,  think  what  Lucia  suffers! 

For.     'Tis   true;   unruffled  and    serene    I've 

met 

The  common   accidents  of   life,   but  here 
Such  an   unlooked-for   storm   of   ills    falls  on 

me, 
It    beats    down    all    my    strength.      I    cannot 

bear   it. 
We  must  not  part. 

Luc.  What   dost  thou  say?  not  part? 

Hast  thou  forgot  the  vow  that  I  have  made? 
Are  there  not  heavens,  and  gods,  and  thun- 
der o'er  us? 
—But    see!    thy    brother    Marcus    bends    this 

way! 

I  sicken  at  the  sight.  Once  more,  farewell, 
Farewell,  and  know  thou  wrong'st  me,  if 

thou  think'st 
Ever  was  love,  or  ever  grief,  like  mine. 

SCENE    III 
MARCUS,   PORTIUS. 

Mar.     Portius,    what    hopes?    how    stands 

she?  am  I  doomed 
To  life  or  death? 

For.         What  wouldst  thou  have   me   say? 
Mar.     What    means    this   pensive   posture? 

thou  appear'st 
Like  one   amazed  and   terrified. 

For.  I've  reason. 

Mar.     Thy    downcast    looks    and    thy    dis- 
ordered thoughts 

Tell  me  my  fate.     I  ask  not  the  success 
My   cause  has  found. 

For.  I'm   grieved   I   undertook   it. 

Mar.     What!  does   the  barbarous  maid  in- 
sult   my    heart, 

My  aching  heart !  and  triumph  in  my  pains  ? 
That  I  could  cast  her  from  my  thoughts  for 

ever! 
For.     Away!  you're  too  suspicious  in  your 

griefs; 

Lucia,  though  sworn  never  to  think  of  love, 

Compassionates   your  pains,   and   pities    you! 

Mar.     Compassionates  my  pains,  and  pities 

me! 

What  is  compassion  when  'tis  void  of  love? 
Fool  that  I  was  to  choose  so  cold  a  friend 
To  urge  my  cause !  compassionate  my  pains ! 
Prithee  what  art,  what  rhetoric  didst  thou 

use 

To   gain   this   mighty  boon  ?     She  pities   me ! 

To   one    that   asks   the   warm   return   of   love, 

Compassion's  cruelty,   'tis  scorn,   'tis  death— 

For.     Marcus,    no    more !    have    I    deserved 

this  treatment? 

Mar.     What  have  I  said!  O  Portius,  O  for- 
give   me ! 
A  soul  exasperated  in  ills  falls  out 


216 


CATO 


ACT  III,  So.  V. 


With    everything,    its    friend,    its    self— but, 

hah! 
What  means  that  shout,  big  with  the  sounds 

of   war? 
What    new   alarm? 

For.  A  second,  louder  yet, 

Swells    in    the    winds,    and    comes   more    full 

upon   us. 
Mar.     Oh    for   some   glorious   cause    to   fall 

in  battle! 

Lucia,  thou  hast  undone  me!  thy  disdain 
Has    broke   my   heart:   'tis    death   must   give 

me  ease. 
For.     Quick,    let   us   hence;    who   knows   if 

Cato's  life 
Stands  sure?    O  Marcus,   I  am  warmed;  my 

heart 
Leaps  at  the  trumpet's  voice,  and  burns  for 

glory. 

SCENE    IV 

SEMPRONIUS    with   the   leaders   of   the   mutiny. 
Sent.     At  length  the  winds  are  raised,  the 

storm    blows    high, 

Be   it   your  care,   my   friends,   to  keep   it  up 
In  its  full  fury,  and  direct  it  right, 
Till   it   has    spent   itself   on   Cato's   head. 
Meanwhile   I'll   herd  among   his   friends,   and 

seem 

One  of  the  number,  that  whate'er  arrive, 
My  friends  and  fellow  soldiers   may  be  safe. 
First   Lead.     We   all   are   safe,    Sempronius 

is   our   friend, 

Sempronius  is  as  brave  a  man  as  Cato. 
But,    hark!    he    enters.      Bear    up    boldly    to 

him; 
Be   sure  you  beat   him  down,   and  bind  him 

fast. 

This  day  will  end  our  toils,  and  give  us  rest; 
Fear  nothing,  for  Sempronius  is  our  friend. 

SCENE    V 

CATO,  SEMPRONIUS,   Lucius,  PORTIUS,  MARCUS, 

ETC. 
Cato.     Where  are  these  bold,  intrepid  sons 

of  war, 

That  greatly   turn  their  backs  upon  the  foe, 

And  to  their  general  send  a  brave  defiance? 

Sem.     Curse   on    their   dastard   souls,    they 

stand  astonished!  [.Aside. 

Cato.     Perfidious   men!  and    will   you   thus 

dishonor 

Your  past  exploits,  and  sully  all  your  wars? 
Do   you  confess  'twas   not  a  zeal   for  Rome, 
Nor  love   of   liberty,   nor   thirst  of  honor, 
Drew  you   thus  far;   but  hopes   to   share   the 

spoil 

Of  conquered  towns  and  plundered  provinces? 
Fired  with  such  motives  you  do  well  to  join 
With  Cato's  foes,  and  follow  Caesar's  banners. 
Why  did  I  scape  the  envenomed  aspic's  rage, 
And  all  the  fiery  monsters  of  the  desert, 


To  see  this  day?  why  could  not  Cato  fall 
Without     your     guilt?       Behold,     ungrateful 

men, 

Behold  my  bosom  naked  to  your  swords, 
And    let    the   man    that's   injured    strike    the 

blow. 

Which  of  you  all  suspects  that  he  is  wronged, 
Or  thinks  he  suffers  greater  ills  than  Cato? 
Am  I  distinguished  from  you  but  by  toils, 
Superior  toils,  and  heavier  weight  of  cares? 
Painful  pre-eminence! 

Sem.  By    heavens    they    droop! 

Confusion  to  the  villains!  all  is  lost. 

[Aside. 

Cato.     Have    you    forgotten    Libya's    burn- 
ing waste, 
Its  barren  rocks,  parched  earth,  and  hills  of 

sand, 

Its  tainted  air,  and  all  its  broods  of  poison? 
Who  was  the  first  to  explore  the  untrodden 

path, 

When  life  was  hazarded  in  every  step? 
Or,   fainting   in  the  long,  laborious   march, 
When     on     the    banks     of    an     unlooked-for 

stream 

You  sunk  the  river  with  repeated  draughts, 
Who  was  the  last  in  all  your  host  that 

thirsted? 
Sem.     If  some  penurious  source  by  chance 

appeared, 

Scanty  of  waters,   when  you  scooped  it  dry, 
And  offered  the  full  helmet  up  to  Cato, 
Did  he  not  dash  the  untasted  moisture  from 

him? 
Did   he    not    lead   you    through    the    mid-day 

sun, 

And  clouds  of  dust?  did  not  his  temples  glow 
In  the  same  sultry  winds  and  scorching 

heats  ? 
Cato.     Hence,    worthless    men!    hence!   and 

complain   to  Caesar 

You  could  not  undergo   the  toils  of  war, 
Nor    bear    the    hardships    that    your    leader 

bore. 
Luc.     See,    Cato,    see    the    unhappy    men! 

they   weep ! 
Fear,    and    remorse,    and    sorrow    for    their 

crime, 

Appear  in  every  look,  and  plead   for   mercy. 
Cato.     Learn    to    be    honest    men,    give    up 

your  leaders, 

And   pardon    shall    descend    on   all    the   rest. 
Sem.     Cato,  commit  these  wretches  to  my 

care. 

First  let  'em  each  be  broken  on  the  rack, 
Then,  with  what  life  remains,  impaled  and 

left 

To  writhe  at  leisure  round  the  bloody  stake. 
There  let  'em  hang,  and  taint  the  southern 

wind. 
The     partners     of     their     crime     will     learn 

obedience, 

When    they   look    up    and    see    their   fellow- 
traitors 


217 


ACT  III,  Sc.  VII. 


OATO 


Stuck  on  a  fork,  and  blackening  in  the  sun. 
Luc.     Sempronius,     why,     why     wilt     thou 
urge   the  fate 

Of   wretched   men? 

_SYm.       How!  wouldst  thou  clear  rebellion? 

Lucius   (good  man)  pities  the  poor  offenders, 

That    would    imbrue    their    hands    in    Cato's 

blood. 

Cato.     Forbear,  Sempronius! — see  they  suf- 
fer death, 

But  in  their  deaths  remember  they  are  men. 

Strain   not   the  laws   to  make   their  tortures 
grievous. 

Lucius,    the   base,   degenerate   age  requires 

Severity,  and  justice   in   its   rigor; 

This  awes  an  impious,  bold,  offending  world, 

Commands    obedience,    and     gives    force    to 
laws. 

When     by     just     vengeance     guilty     mortals 
perish, 

The     gods     behold     their     punishment     with 
pleasure, 

And  lay  the  uplifted  thunderbolt  aside. 
5cm.     Cato,     I      execute     thy      will      with 

pleasure, 
Cato.     Meanwhile  we'll  sacrifice  to  liberty. 

Remember,    O    my     friends,     the    laws,     the 
rights, 

The  generous  plan  of  power  delivered  down, 

From   age    to   age,   by   your    renowned    fore- 
fathers, 

(So    dearly    bought,    the    price    of    so    much 
blood) 

Oh  let  it  never  perish  in  your  hands! 

But  piously  transmit  it  to  your  children. 

Do    thou,    great    Liberty,    inspire    our    souls, 

And  make  our  lives  in  thy  possession  happy, 

Or  our  deaths   glorious   in  thy  just   defense. 


SCENE  VI 
SEMPRONIUS   and   the    leaders   of   the    mutiny. 

jst  Lead.     Sempronius,  you  have  acted  like 

yourself, 
One  would  have   thought  you  had  been   half 

in  earnest. 
.Sent.     Villain,    stand   off!  base,    grovelling, 

worthless  wretches, 
Mongrels      in      faction,      poor      faint-hearted 

traitors ! 
zd  Lead.     Nay,  now   you  carry   it   too   far, 

Sempronius : 
Throw  off  the  mask,  there  are  none  here  but 

friends. 
Sew.     Know,    villains,    when     such    paltry 

slaves  presume 

To  mix  in  treason,  if  the  plot  succeeds, 
They're  thrown  neglected  by:  but  if  it  fails, 
They're  sure  to  die  like  dogs,  as  you  shall  do. 
Here,    take    these    factious    monsters,    drag 

'em  forth 
To  sudden  death. 


Enter  Guards. 

ist  Lead.     Nay,  since  it  comes  to  this — 
Sem.     Despatch  'em  quick,  but  first  pluck 

out  their  tongues, 

Lest  with  their  dying  breath  they  sow  sedi- 
tion. 


SCENE   VII 
SYPHAX,  SEMPRONIUS. 

Syph.     Our    first    design,    my    friend,    has 

proved  abortive; 

Still    there   remains   an    after-game   to    play: 
My     troops    are    mounted;     their    Numidian 

steeds 
Snuff   up    the   wind,   and    long    to    scour    the 

desert: 

Let   but   Sempronius    head    us   in   our   flight, 
We'll  force  the  gate  where  Marcus  keeps  his 

guard, 
And    hew    down    all    that    would    oppose    our 

passage. 

A   day  will  bring  us   into  Caesar's   camp. 
Sem.     Confusion!  I  have  failed  of  half  my 

purpose: 

Marcia,    the   charming    Marcia's   left   behind! 
Syph.     How!      will      Sempronius      turn      a 

woman's   slave? 
Sem.     Think   not   thy   friend   can   ever  feel 

the  soft 

Unmanly    warmth    and    tenderness    of    love. 
Syphax,   I  long   to   clasp   that   haughty  maid, 
And    bend    her   stubborn   virtue    to   my   pas- 
sion: 

When  I  have  gone  thus  far,  I'd  cast  her  off. 
Syph.     Well   said!   that's   spoken   like   thy- 
self, Sempronius. 
What   hinders   then,   but   that   thou   find   her 

out, 
And  hurry  her  away  by  manly  force? 

Sem.     But    how    to    gain    admission?    for 

access 

Is  given  to  none  but  Juba  and  her  brothers. 
Syph.     Thou    shalt   have   Juba's   dress   and 

Juba's   guards : 

The  doors  will  open,  when  Numidia's  prince 
Seems     to    appear     before     the    slaves     that 

watch   them. 
Sem.     Heavens,   what  a   thought   is   there! 

Marcia's  my  own! 

How  will  my  bosom  swell  with  anxious  joy, 
When   I   behold  her  struggling   in   my  arms, 
With  glowing  beauty  and  disordered  charms, 
While  fear  and  anger,  with   alternate  grace, 
Pant  in  her  breast,  and  vary  in  her  face! 
So   Pluto,   seized   of   Proserpine,   conveyed 
To    hell's    tremendous    gloom    the    affrighted 

maid, 

There  grimly  smiled,  pleased  with  the  beau- 
teous prize, 
Nor  envied  Jove  his  sunshine  and  hU  skies. 


218 


CATO 


ACT  IV,  Sc.  III. 


ACT  IV 

SCENE  I 
LUCIA,  MARCIA. 

Luc.     Now   tell    me,   Marcia,    tell   me   from 

thy  soul, 

If   thou  believ'st   'tis   possible  for  woman 
To   suffer   greater  ills   than   Lucia   suffers? 
Mar.     O  Lucia,  Lucia,  might  my  big-swoln 

heart 

Vent  all  its  griefs,  and  give  a  loose  to  sor- 
row: 
Marcia    could    answer    thee    in    sighs,    keep 

pace 
With   all   thy   woes,   and   count  out   tear   for 

tear. 
Luc.     I  know  thou'rt  doomed,  alike,   to  be 

beloved 
By     Juba     and     thy     father's     friend,     Sem- 

pronius; 
But  which  of  these  has  power  to  charm  like 

Portius? 
Mar.     Still   must   I   beg   thee  not   to   name 

Sempronius  ? 

Lucia,   I  like  not  that  loud,  boisterous  man; 
Juba  to  all  the  bravery  of  a  hero 
Adds    softest    love,    and    more    than    female 

sweetness; 

Juba   might    make   the   proudest   of   our   sex, 
Any  of  woman-kind,  but  Marcia,  happy. 
Luc.     And    why    not    Marcia?    come,    you 

strive   in   vain 
To  hide  your  thoughts  from  one  who  knows 

too  well 

The  inward  glowings  of  a  heart  in  love. 
Mar.     While   Cato   lives,   his   daughter  has 

no  right 

To  love  or  hate,  but  as  his  choice  directs. 
Luc.     But   should   this   father   give   you   to 

Sempronius  ? 
Mar.     I   dare   not  think  he  will:  but  if  he 

should — 

Why  wilt  thou  add   to  all  the  griefs  I  suffer 
Imaginary  ills,  and  fancied  tortures? 
I    hear    the    sound   of   feet!    they    march    this 

way! 

Let  us  retire,  and  try  if  we  can  drown 
Each  softer  thought  in  sense  of  present  dan- 
ger. 
When    love    once    pleads    admission    to    our 

hearts, 

(In   spite   of   all   the   virtue  we  can   boast) 
The   woman   that  deliberates   is   lost. 


SCENE  II 

SEMPRONIUS,  dressed  like  JUBA,  with  Numidian 
guards. 

Sem.     The    deer    is    lodged.      I've    tracked 

her  to  her  covert. 

Be  sure  you  mind  the  word,  and  when  I  give 
it, 


Rush  in  at  once,  and  seize  upon  your  prey. 
Let  not  her  cries  or  tears  have  force  to  move 

you. 

— How  will  the  young  Numidian  rave,  to  see 
His  mistress  lost!  if  aught  could  glad  my 

soul, 

Beyond  the   enjoyment  of   so  bright   a  prize, 
'Twould   be   to  torture  that  young   gay  bar- 
barian. 
— But,  hark,  what  noise !  death  to  my  hopes ! 

'tis   he, 

'Tis  Juba's  self!  there  is  but  one  way  left — 
He  must  be  murdered,  and  a  passage  cut 
Through  those  his  guards — Hah!  dastards, 

do  you  tremble! 
Or   act  like  men,   or  by  yon   azure   heaven — 

Enter  JUBA. 

Juba.     What    do    I    see?    who's    this    that 

dare    usurp 

The   guards    and   habit  of   Numidia's   prince? 
Sem.     One   that   was   born   to  scourge   thy 

arrogance, 
Presumptuous   youth ! 

Juba.  What  can  this  mean?  Sempro- 

nius! 
Sem.     My  sword  shall  answer  thee.     Have 

at  thy  heart. 

Juba.     Nay,    then   beware   thy   own,  proud, 
barbarous  man! 

[SEMPRONIUS  falls.    His  guards  surrender. 
Sem.     Curse    on     my     stars!    am    I    then 

doomed   to  fall 

By    a   boy's    hand,    disfigured   in   a   vile 

Numidian  dress,  and  for  a  worthless  woman? 

Gods,    I'm   distracted!   this    my   close   of   life! 

Oh    for   a   peal   of    thunder   that   would   make 

Earth,    sea,    and    air,   and   heaven,    and    Cato 

tremble !  [Dies. 

Juba.     With     what     a     spring    his    furious 

soul    broke    loose. 
And    left    the    limbs    still    quivering    on    the 

ground ! 

Hence  let  us  carry  off  those  slaves  to  Cato, 
That  we  may  there  at  length  unravel  all 
This  dark  design,  this  mystery  of  fate. 

SCENE    III 
LUCIA,  MARCIA. 
Luc.     Sure  'twas   the  clash  of  swords;  my 

troubled    heart 

Is    so   cast   down,   and   sunk   amidst   its   sor- 
rows, 

It    throbs     with     fear    and    aches     at     every 
sound. 

0  Marcia,  should  thy  brothers  for  my  sake! — 

1  die  away   with  horror  at  the   thought. 
Mar.     See,  Lucia,  see!  here's  blood!  here's 

blood   and   murder! 
Hah,     a     Numidian!     heavens     preserve     the 

prince; 

The  face  lies  muffled  up  within  the  garment. 
But  hah!  death  to  my  sight,  a  diadem, 


219 


ACT  IV,  Sc.  III. 


CATO 


And   purple   robes !   O   Gods !   'tis   he,   'tis   he ! 

Juba.    the   loveliest   youth   that   ever   warmed 

A    virgin's   heart,   Juba  lies    dead   before   us! 

Luc.     Now,    Marcia,    now    call    up    to    thy 

assistance 
Thy     wonted     strength     and     constancy     of 

mind; 

Thou  canst  not  put  it  to  a  greater  trial. 
Mar.     Lucia,    look    there,    and    wonder    at 

my    patience. 
Have    I    not    cause    to    rave,    and    beat    my 

breast, 

To   rend   my  heart  with  grief,   and   run   dis- 
tracted ? 
Luc.     What    can    I    think    or    say    to    give 

thee    comfort  ? 
Mar.     Talk  not  of  comfort,  'tis  for  lighter 

ills: 
Behold  a  sight  that  strikes  all  comfort  dead. 

'Enter    JUBA,    listening. 

I  will  indulge  my  sorrows,  and  give  way 

To  all  the  pangs  and  fury  of  despair, 

That    man,    that    best    of    men,    deserved    it 

from  me. 
Juba.     What  do  I  hear!  and  was  the  false 

Sempronius 

That  best  of  men?  Oh  had  I  fallen  like  him, 
And  could  have  thus  been  mourned,  I  had 

been    happy ! 
Luc.     Here  will  I  stand,  companion  in  thy 

woes, 

And  help  thee  with  my  tears!  when  I  behold 
A   loss  like   thine,   I   half  forget   my   own. 
Mar.     'Tis    not    in    fate    to    ease    my    tor- 
tured breast. 

This  empty  world,  to  me  a  joyless  desert, 
Has  nothing  left  to  make  poor  Marcia  happy. 
Juba.     I'm    on    the    rack!    was    he    so    near 

her  heart? 
Mar.     Oh!  he  was  all  made  up  of  love  and 

charms, 

Whatever  maid  could  wish  or  man  admire: 
Delight  of  every  eye!  when  he  appeared, 
A  secret  pleasure  gladdened  all  that  saw 

him; 
But    when    he    talked,    the    proudest    Roman 

blushed 

To  hear  his  virtues,  and  old  age  grew  wise. 
Juba.     I   shall  run   mad — 
Mar.  O  Juba!  Juba!  Juba! 

Juba.     What    means    that    voice?    did    she 

not    call    on    Juba? 
Mar.     Why    do   I    think   on   what    he   was! 

he's  dead! 
He's  dead,  and  never  knew  how  much  I  loved 

him. 
Lucia,    who    knows    but    his    poor    bleeding 

heart, 

Amidst    its   agonies,   remembered    Marcia, 
And    the    last    words    he    uttered    called    me 

cruel! 

Alas!  he  knew  not,  hapless  youth,   he  knew 
not 


Marcia's    whole    soul    was    full    of    love    and 

Juba. 
Juba.     Where    am    I  ?    do    I    live !    or    am 

indeed 
What   Marcia    thinks!   all    is    Elysium   round 

me! 
Mar.     Ye   dear  remains  of   the  most   loved 

of  men! 

Nor  modesty   nor  virtue   here   forbid 
A  last  embrace,  while  thus — 

Juba.  — See,   Marcia,    see, 

[Throwing    himself    before    her. 
The  happy  Juba  lives!  he  lives  to  catch 
That  dear  embrace,  and  to  return  it  too 
With  mutual   warmth  and  eagerness  of  love. 
Mar.     With    pleasure   and   amaze,    I    stand 

transported ! 

Sure   'tis   a  dream !  dead   and  alive  at   once ! 
If  thou  art  Juba,  who  lies  there? 

Juba.  A  wretch, 

Disguised  like  Juba,  on  a  cursed   design. 
The   tale   is    long,    nor   have    I   heard   it    out; 
Thy   father   knows    it   all.      I    could   not   bear 
To  leave  thee  in  the   neighborhood  of  death, 
But    flew,   in    all    the   haste   of    love,    to   find 

thee; 

I   found  thee  weeping,  and  confess  this  once, 

Am  rapt  with  joy  to  see  my  Marcia's  tears. 

Mar.     I've  been  surprised  in  an  unguarded 

hour, 
But   must   not   now   go   back:   the  love,   that 

lay 
Half    smothered    in    my    breast,    has    broke 

through    all 
Its    weak    restraints,    and    burns    in    its    full 

luster; 

I    cannot,    if   I   would,    conceal    it    from    thee. 
Juba.     I'm  lost  in  ecstasy!   and  dost   thou 

love, 
Thou   charming   maid? 

Mar.  And  dost  thou  live  to  ask  it? 

Juba.     This,  this  is  life   indeed!  life  worth 

preserving, 
Such  life  as  Juba  never  felt   till  now! 

Mar.     Believe  me,  prince,  before  I  thought 

thee   dead, 
I    did   not    know    myself    how    much    I    loved 

thee. 

Juba.     Oh   fortunate   mistake! 
Mar.  Oh   happy   Marcia! 

Juba.     My  joy!  my  best  beloved!  my  only 

wish! 

How  shall  I  speak  the  transport  of  my  soul? 
Mar.     Lucia,  thy  arm!  oh  let  me  rest  upon 

it!— 

The  vital  blood,   that  had  forsook  my  heart, 
Returns   again   in   such   tumultuous   tide, 
It   quite   o'ercomes  me.     Lead   to   my   apart- 
ment.— 

O  prince!  I  blush  to  think  what  I  have  said, 
But    fate    has    wrested    the    confession    from 

me; 

Go  on,  and  prosper  in   the  paths   of  honor. 
Thy  virtue  will  excuse  my  passion  for  thee, 


220 


CATO 


ACT  IV,  Sc.  IV. 


And   make   the   gods   propitious   to  our   love. 

[Exeunt  MARCIA  and  LUCIA. 

Juba.     I  am  so  blest,  I  fear  'tis  all  a  dream. 

Fortune,  thou  now  hast  made  amends  for  all 

Thy    past    unkindness.     I    absolve   my    stars. 

What    though    Numidia    add    her    conquered 

towns 

And  provinces  to  swell  the  victor's  triumph! 
Juba  will  never  at  his   fate  repine; 
Let  Caesar  have  the  world,  if  Marcia's  mine. 


SCENE    IV 

A   March   at   a   Distance. 
CATO,  Lucius. 

Luc.     1    stand   astonished!   what,    the   bold 

Sempronius  ! 
That  still  broke  foremost  through  the  crowd 

of  patriots, 

As   with  a  hurricane  of  zeal  transported, 
And  virtuous  even  to  madness  — 

Cato.  Trust   me,  Lucius, 

Our  civil  discords  have  produced  such  crimes, 
Such    monstrous    crimes,    I    am    surprised    at 

nothing. 

—  O  Lucius  !  I  am  sick  of  this  bad  world  ! 
The  day-light   and    the   sun   grow  painful   to 
me. 

Enter  PORTIUS. 

But  see  where  Portius  comes!    What  means 

this    haste? 
Why  are  thy   looks  thus   changed? 

For.  My  heart  is  grieved. 

I  bring  such  news  as  will  afflict  my   father. 

Cato.     Has  Caesar  shed  more  Roman  blood  ? 


For. 


Not  so. 


The  traitor  Syphax,  as  within  the  square 
He    exercised    his    troops,    the    signal    given, 
Flew    off   at    once    with    his    Numidian    horse 
To  the  south   gate,  where   Marcus   holds  the 

watch. 

I   saw,   and  called  to  stop  him,  but  in  vain, 
He    tossed    his    arm    aloft,    and    proudly    told 

me, 
He    would    not    stay    and    perish    like    Sem- 

pronius. 
Cato.     Perfidious  men!  but  haste,  my  son, 

and   see 

Thy    brother    Marcus    acts    a   Roman's    part. 

[Exit    FOR. 
—  Lucius,    the    torrent    bears    too    hard    upon 

me: 
Justice    gives    way    to    force:    the    conquered 

world 

Is   Caesar's:   Cato   has  no  business  in  it. 
Luc.     While    pride,    oppression,   and    injus- 

tice reign, 
The  world  will  still  demand  her  Cato's  pres- 

ence. 

In  pity   to  mankind,   submit  to  Caesar, 
And   reconcile   thy   mighty    soul   to   life. 


Cato.     Would  Lucius  have  me  live  to  swell 

the  number 

Of   Caesar's   slaves,   or  by  a   base  submission 
Give    up    the    cause    of    Rome,    and    own    a 

tyrant  ? 
Luc.     The     victor    never    will     impose    on 

Cato. 

Ungenerous    terms.     His   enemies   confess 
The  virtues  of  humanity  are  Caesar's. 

Cato.     Curse    on   his    virtues!    they've    un- 
done  his    country. 

Such   popular    humanity    is    treason — 
But    see    young    Juba!    the    good    youth    ap- 
pears 

Full   of   the  guilt   of  his   perfidious    subjects. 
Luc.     Alas!  poor  prince!  his   fate  deserves 
compassion. 


Enter  JUBA. 
blush     and     am     confounded 


to 


Juba.     I 
appear 
Before  thy  presence,  Cato. 

Cato.  What's  thy  crime? 

Juba.     I'm    a    Numidian. 
Cato.  And   a  brave  one   too. 

Thou   hast   a   Roman    soul. 

Juba.  Hast  thou  not  heard 

Of    my    false    countrymen? 

Cato.  Alas !  young  prince, 

Falsehood     and     fraud     shoot     up     in     every 

soil, 
The    product    of    all     climes — Rome    has     its 

Caesars. 
Juba.     'Tis    generous    thus    to    comfort    the 

distressed. 
Cato.     'Tis    just    to    give    applause    where 

'tis    deserved; 
Thy    virtue,    prince,    has    stood    the    test    of 

fortune, 

Like  purest   gold,   that,   tortured  in   the  fur- 
nace, 
Comes  out  more  bright,  and  brings  forth  all 

its   weight. 
Juba.     What     shall 

ravished  heart 
O'erflows  with    secret   joy:    I'd   rather   gain 
Thy  praise,  O  Cato,   than  Numidia's   empire. 

Re-enter  PORTIUS. 

For.     Misfortune    on    misfortune!    grief    on 

grief ! 
My  brother  Marcus — 

Cato.  Hah!  what  has  he  done? 

Has  he  forsook  his  post?  has  he  given  way? 
Did  he  look  tamely  on,  and  let  'em  pass? 
For.     Scarce   had    I    left   my    father,    but    I 

met   him 

Borne   on    the    shields   of   his    surviving   sol- 
diers, 
Breathless    and   pale,   and    covered   o'er   with 

wounds. 

Long,  at  the  head  of  his  few  faithful  friends, 
He  stood  the  shock  of  a  whole  host  of  foes. 


I     answer     thee?     my 


221 


ACT  IV,  Sc.  IV. 


CATO 


Till,   obstinately   brave,   and   bent  on   death. 
Oppressed    with    multitudes,    he    greatly    fell. 
Cato.     I'm   satisfied. 

For.  Nor    did   he   fall   before 

His    sword    had    pierced    through    the    false 

heart  of  Syphax. 

Yonder  he  lies.    I  saw  the  hoary  traitor 
Grin    in    the    pangs    of    death,    and    bite    the 

ground. 
Cato.     Thanks    to    the    gods!   my    boy    has 

done   his   duty. 
— Portius,    when    I    am    dead,    be    sure    thou 

place 
His   urn   near  mine. 

Par.  Long    may    they    keep    asunder. 

Luc.     O   Cato!   arm   thy    soul   with    all   its 

patience ; 

See  where   the    corpse   of    thy   dead   son    ap- 
proaches ! 

The   citizens   and   senators,   alarmed, 
Have  gathered  round  it,  and  attend  it  weep- 
ing. 

CATO,    meeting    the    corpse. 

Welcome,   my    son!  here   lay   him   down,   my 
friends, 

Full  in  my  sight,  that  I  may  view  at  leisure 

The   bloody   corse,   and   count   those   glorious 
wounds. 

How    beautiful    is    death,    when    earned    by 
virtue ! 

Who    would   not   be   that   youth?   what    pity 
is   it 

That    we    can    die    but    once    to    serve    our 
country ! 

Why   sits    this   sadness   on    your   brows,   my 
friends  ? 

I    should   have   blushed   if    Cato's    house   had 
stood 

Secure,  and  flourished  in  a  civil  war. 

— Portius,    behold    thy    brother,    and    remem- 
ber 

Thy   life   is   not   thine  own,   when   Rome   de- 
mands   it. 

Juba.     Was   ever    man   like    this !       [Aside. 
Cato.  Alas  !  my  friends ! 

Why  mourn  you  thus?  let  not  a  private  loss 

Afflict  your  hearts.     Tis  Rome  requires  our 
tears, 

The   mistress  of  the  world,   the   seat  of  em- 
pire, 

The  nurse  of  heroes,  the  delight  of  gods, 

That  humbled  the  proud  tyrants  of  the  earth, 

And   set  the  nations  free,  Rome  is  no  more. 

Oh   liberty!  Oh  virtue!  Oh  my  country! 
Juba.     Behold     that     upright    man!     Rome 
fills  his  eyes 

With    tears,    that    flowed    not    o'er    his    own 
dead  son.  [Aside. 

Cato.     Whate'er     the     Roman     virtue     has 
subdued, 

The   sun's    whole   course,   the   day   and   year, 
are    Caesar's. 

For  him  the  self-devoted  Decii  died, 


The    Fabii    fell,    and    the    great    Scipios    con- 
quered; 

Ev'n    Pompey    fought    for    Caesar.      Oh!    my 
friends ! 

How  is  the  toil  of  fate,  the  work  of  ages, 

The    Roman    empire   fallen!     Oh    cursed    am- 
bition ! 

Fallen   into   Caesar's  hands!     Our  great  fore- 
fathers 

Had    left    him    nought    to    conquer    but    his 

country. 

Juba.     While  Cato  lives,   Caesar  will   blush 
to   see 

Mankind    enslaved,    and   be   ashamed   of    em- 
pire. 
(',;/.'.     Caesar    ashamed!    has    not    he    seen 

Pharsalia? 
Luc.     Cato,    'tis    time    thou    save    thyself 

and  us. 

Cato.     Lose  not  a  thought  on  me;  I'm  out 
of    danger. 

Heaven    will    not    leave   me    in    the    victor's 
hand. 

Caesar  shall  never  say,  I  conquered  Cato. 

But,    oh!    my    friends,    your    safety    fills    my 
heart 

With    anxious    thoughts:    a    thousand    secret 
terrors 

Rise  in  my  soul:  how  shall  I  save  my  friends! 

'Tis  now,   O  Caesar,   I  begin  to  fear   thee. 
Luc.     Caesar    has    mercy,    if    we    ask    it    of 

him. 

Cato.     Then  ask  it,  I  conjure  you!  let  him 
know 

Whate'er  was  done  against  him,  Cato  did  it. 

Add,  if  you  please,  that  I  request  it  of  him, 

The    virtue    of    my    friends    may    pass    un- 
punished. 

— Juba,    my   heart   is   troubled   for   thy    sake. 

Should   I  advise  thee  to  regain  Numidia, 

Or   seek   the  conqueror? — 

Juba.  If  I  forsake  thee 

Whilst    I    have    life,    may    heaven    abandon 

Juba! 

Cato.     Thy    virtues,    prince,    if    I    foresee 
aright, 

Will    one    day    make    thee    great;    at    Rome, 
hereafter, 

'Twill  be  no  crime  to  have  been  Cato's  friend. 

Portius,   draw   near!   my   son,   thou   oft   hast 
seen 

Thy   sire   engaged  in  a   corrupted   state, 

Wrestling   with   vice   and    faction:    now    thou 
seest  me 

Spent,    overpowered,    despairing    of    success; 

Let   me  advise  thee  to   retreat  betimes 

To    thy    paternal    seat,    the   Sabine   field, 

Where  the  great  Censor  toiled  with  his  own 
hands, 

And   all    our    frugal    ancestors   were    blessed 

In   humble   virtues,   and   a   rural   life. 

There    live    retired,    pray    for    the    peace    of 
Rome: 

Content    thyself    to    be    obscurely    good. 


222 


CATO 


ACT  V,  Sc.  II. 


When    vice   prevails,   and    impious   men   bear 

sway, 

The  post  of  honor  is  a  private  station. 
Par.     I    hope    my   father   does    not    recom- 
mend 

A  life  to  Portius  that  he  scorns  himself. 
Cato.     Farewell,    my    friends!    if    there    be 

any  of  you 

Who    dare    not   trust    the   victor's    clemency, 
Know,  there  are  ships  prepared  by  my  com- 
mand, 

(Their    sails    already    opening    to    the    winds) 
That    shall    convey    you    to    the    wished-for 

port. 
Is  there  aught  else,  my  friends,  I  can  do  for 

you? 

The  conqueror  draws  near.     Once  more  fare- 
well! 

If  e'er  we  meet  hereafter,  we  shall  meet 
In   happier  climes,  and   on   a   safer  shore, 
Where  Caesar  never  shall  approach  us  more. 
[Pointing  to  his  dead  son. 
There   the  brave   youth,   with   love  of  virtue 

fired, 

Who  greatly  in  his  country's  cause  expired, 
Shall  know   he  conquered.     The  firm   patriot 

there, 

(Who  made  the  welfare  of  mankind  his  care) 
Though    still,    by   faction,    vice,    and    fortune 

crost, 
Shall   find   the   generous   labor   was   not  lost. 


ACT   V 

SCENE  I 

CATO  solus,  sitting  in  a  thoughtful  posture:  in 
his  hand  Plato's  Book  on  the  Immortality 
of  the  Soul.  A  drawn  sword  on  the  table 
by  him. 

It  must  be   so — Plato,   thou   reason'st  well!— 

Else  whence  this  pleasing  hope,  this  fond 
desire, 

This  longing  after  immortality? 

Or  whence  this  secret  dread,  and  inward 
horror, 

Of  falling  into  naught?  why  shrinks  the 
soul 

Back  on  herself,  and  startles  at  destruction? 

'Tis    the   divinity   that   stirs   within   us; 

'Tis  heaven  itself,  that  points  out  an  here- 
after, 

And  intimates  eternity  to   man. 

Eternity!    thou    pleasing,    dreadful    thought! 

Through   what  variety  of  untried  being, 

Through  what  new  scenes  and  changes  must 
we  pass ! 

The  wide,  the  unbounded  prospect,  lies  be- 
fore me; 

But  shadows,  clouds,  and  darkness,  rest  upon 
it. 

Here  will  I  hold.    If  there's  a  power  above  us, 

(And  that  there  is  all  nature   cries  aloud 


Through   all   her   works)    he  must   delight  in 

virtue: 
And    that    which    he    delights    in,    must    be 

happy. 
But  when!  or  where! — This  world  was  made 

for  Caesar. 

I'm  weary  of  conjectures— This  must  end  'em. 

[.Laying  his  hand  on  his  sword. 

Thus   am   I    doubly    armed:    my   death   and 

life, 

My   bane   and  antidote,   are  both  before  me: 
This  in  a  moment  brings  me  to  an  end; 
But   this   ir.'orms   me   I   shall   never  die. 
The  soul  secured  in  her  existence,  smiles 
At   the   drawn    dagger,    and   defies   its   point. 
The   stars   shall   fade  away,    the   sun   himself 
Grow    dim    with    age,    and    nature    sink    in 

years; 

But   thou   shalt   flourish   in   immortal   youth, 
Unhurt  amidst  the  wars  of  elements, 
The    wrecks    of    matter,    and    the    crush    of 

worlds. 
What    means    this    heaviness    that    hangs 

upon  me? 
This    lethargy    that    creeps    through    all    my 

senses  ? 
Nature,    oppressed    and    harassed    out    with 

care, 

Sinks  down  to  rest.  This  once  I'll  favor  her, 
That  my  awakened  soul  may  take  her  flight, 
Renewed  in  all  her  strength,  and  fresh  with 

life, 

An  offering  fit  for  heaven.  Let  guilt  or  fear 
Disturb  man's  rest:  Cato  knows  neither  of 

'em, 
Indifferent  in  his  choice  to  sleep  or  die. 


SCENE  II 
CATO,    PORTIUS. 
hah !     how's     this, 


my     son  ? 


Cato.     But, 

why   this  intrusion? 
Were  not  my  orders  that  I  would  be  private? 
Why  am   I    disobeyed? 

Par.  Alas!  my  father! 

What  means   this  sword,   this  instrument  of 

death  ? 
Let  me  convey  it  hence! 

Cato.  Rash    youth,    forbear! 

Par.     Oh    let    the    prayers,    the    entreaties 

of  your  friends, 
Their   tears,   their   common  danger,   wrest  it 

from  you. 
Cato.     Wouldst    thou   betray   me?    wouldst 

thou  give  me  up 

A  slave,  a  captive,  into  Caesar's  hands? 
Retire,  and  learn  obedience  to  a  father, 
Or  know,  young  man! — 

Par.  Look   not   thus   sternly  on  me; 

You    know   I'd   rather   die   than    disobey   you. 
Cato.     'Tis  well!  again  I'm  master  of  my- 
self. 

Now,  Caesar,  let  thy  troops  beset  our  gates, 
And    bar   each    avenue,    thy    gathering   fleet* 


223 


ACT  V,  Sc.  IV. 


CATO 


O'erspread  the  sea,  and  stop  up  every  port; 
Cato    shall   open    to    himself   a    passage, 
And  mock   thy  hopes — 

For.  Oh,   sir!   forgive  your  son, 

Whose    grief  hangs   heavy   on  him!     Oh   my 

father ! 

How  am  I  sure  it  is  not  the  last  time 
I  e'er  shall  call  you  so!  be  not  displeased, 
Oh  be  not  angry  with  me  whilst  I  weep, 
And,  in  the  anguish  of  my  heart  beseech  you 
To   quit  the   dreadful   purpose  of   your   soul! 
Cato.     Thou     hast     been     ever     good     and 

dutiful.  [Embracing  him. 

Weep   not,   my   son.     All   will   be   well    again. 
The  righteous  gods,  whom  I  have  sought  to 

please, 

Will   succor  Cato,  and  preserve  his  children. 
For.     Your    words     give     comfort     to     my 

drooping   heart. 
Cato.     Portius,  thou  may'st  rely  upon  my 

conduct. 
Thy    father    will    not    act    what    misbecomes 

him. 

But  go,  my  son,  and  see  if  aught  be  wanting 
Among    thy   father's    friends;    see    them   em- 
barked; 
And  tell  me  if  the  winds  and  seas  befriend 

them. 
My    soul   is    quite   weighed   down   with    care, 

and   asks 

The    soft   refreshment   of   a   moment's   sleep. 

[Exit. 
For.     My   thoughts   are  more   at  ease,   my 

heart  revives. 


SCENE  III 
PORTIUS,  MARCIA. 

For.     O  Marcia,  O  my   sister,   still  there's 

hope! 

Our  father  will  not  cast  away  a  life 
So  needful  to  us  all,  and  to  his  country. 
He  is   retired   to  rest,  and  seems  to  cherish 
Thoughts   full  of  peace.     He   has   despatched 

me  hence 

With  orders,  that  bespeak  a  mind  composed, 
And  studious  for  the  safety  of  his  friends. 
Marcia,  take  care  that  none  disturb  his 

slumbers. 
Mar.     O   ye   immortal   powers,    that    guard 

the  just, 

Watch   round   his   couch,  and   soften   his   re- 
pose, 

Banish  his  sorrows,  and  becalm  his  soul 
With  easy  dreams;  remember  all  his  virtues! 
And    show    mankind    that    goodness    is    your 
care. 

SCENE   IV 
LUCIA,    MARCIA. 

Luc.     Where  is  your  father,  Marcia,  where 
is  Cato? 


Mar.     Lucia,    speak    low,    he    is    retired    to 

rest. 

Lucia,  I  feel  a  gently-dawning  hope 
Rise  in  my  soul.    We  shall  be  happy  still. 
Luc.     Alas!    I    tremble    when    I    think    on 

Cato, 

In  every   view,   in   every  thought   I   tremble! 
Cato  is  stern,  and  awful   as   a  god; 
He  knows  not  how  to  wink  at  human  frailty, 
Or  pardon  weakness  that  he  never  felt. 
Mar.     Though  stern  and  awful  to  the  foes 

of  Rome, 

He  is  all  goodness,  Lucia,  always  mild, 
Compassionate,    and    gentle    to    his    friends. 
Fill'd  with  domestic  tenderness,  the  best, 
The   kindest   father!   I   have   ever   found  him 
Easy,  and  good,  and  bounteous  to  my  wishes. 
Luc.     Tis  his  consent  alone  can  make   us 

blest. 

Marcia,   we   both   are  equally  involved 
In  the  same  intricate,  perplexed  distress. 
The   cruel   hand   of   fate,    that    has    destroyed 
Thy  brother  Marcus,  whom  we  both  lament- 
Mar.     And     ever     shall     lament,     unhappy 

youth ! 
Luc.     Has  set  my  soul  at  large,  and  now  I 

stand 
Loose   of   my    vow.     But   who   knows    Cato's 

thoughts  ? 
Who    knows    how    yet    he    may    dispose    of 

Portius, 
Or  how  he  has  determined  of  thyself? 

Mar.     Let   him   but   live!   commit   the   rest 
to  heaven. 

Enter  Lucius. 

Luc.     Sweet   are   the   slumbers   of   the  vir- 
tuous man ! 

0  Marcia,   I  have  seen  thy  godlike  father: 
Some  power  invisible  supports  his   soul, 
And  bears  it  up  in  all  its  wonted   greatness. 
A   kind   refreshing  sleep   is   fallen   upon   him: 

1  saw   him   stretched   at  ease,  his   fancy   lost 
In    pleasing    dreams:    as    I    drew    near    his 

couch, 
He    smiled,    and    cried,    "  Caesar,    thou    canst 

not    hurt    me." 
Mar.     His    mind    still    labors    with    some 

dreadful  thought. 
Luc.     Lucia,  why  all  this  grief,  these  floods 

of  sorrow? 

Dry  up  thy  tears,  my  child,  we  all   are   safe 
While    Cato    lives— his    presence   will   protect 
us. 

Enter  JUBA. 

Juha.     Lucius,   the  horsemen   are   returned 

from  viewing 
The    number,    strength,    and   posture   of    our 

foes, 
Who    now    encamp    within    a    short    hour's 

march. 
On    the    high    point    of    yon    bright    western 

tower 


224 


CATO 


ACT  V,  Sc.  IV. 


We  ken  them  from  afar,  the  setting  sun 
Plays   on   their   shining   arms   and   burnished 

helmets, 

And  covers  all  the  field  with  gleams  of  fire. 
Luc.     Marcia,    'tis    time    we    should    awake 

thy   father. 

Caesar  is  still  disposed   to  give  us  terms, 
And    waits    at    distance    till    he    hears    from 

Cato. 

Enter  PORTIUS. 

Portius,    thy    looks    speak    somewhat    of   im- 
portance, 
What    tidings   dost   thou   bring?    methinks    I 

see 

Unusual   gladness   sparkling   in   thy   eyes. 
For.     As  I  was  hasting  to  the  port,  where 

now 

My  father's  friends,  impatient  for  a  passage, 
Accuse  the  lingering  winds,  a  sail  arrived 
From  Pompey's  son,  who  through  the  realms 

of  Spain 

Calls  out  for  vengeance  on  his  father's  death, 
And  rouses  the  whole  nation  up  to  arms. 
Were  Cato  at  their  head,  once  more  might 

Rome 

Assert   her   rights   and   claim  her  liberty. 
But,  hark!  what  means  that  groan!    Oh  give 

me    way, 

And   let    me    fly    into    my    father's    presence. 

[Exit  PORTIUS. 

Luc.     Cato,  amidst  his  slumbers,  thinks  on 

Rome, 

And  in  the  wild  disorder  of  his  soul 
Mourns    o'er    his     country, — Hah!    a     second 

groan ! — 
Heaven  guard  us  all — 

Mar.  Alas!  'tis  not  the  voice 

Of    one    who    sleeps!    'tis    agonizing   pain, 
'Tis    death    is    in     that    sound — 

Re-enter  PORTIUS. 

For.  Oh  sight  of  woe! 

0  Marcia,  what  we  feared  is  come  to  pass! 
Cato  is  fallen  upon  his  sword — 

Luc.  O  Portius, 

Hide  all  the  horrors  of  thy  mournful  tale, 
And  let  us  guess  the  rest. 

Par.  I've  raised  him  up, 

And  placed  him  in  his  chair,  where,  pale  and 

faint, 
He    gasps   for   breath,    and,   as    his   life   flows 

from    him, 
Demands    to    see    his    friends.      His    servants 

weeping, 
Obsequious    to   his    orders,   bear   him   hither. 

[The  back  scene  opens  and  discovers  CATO. 


Mar.     O   heaven,   assist  me   in  this  dread- 
ful  hour 

To  pay  the  last  sad  duties  to  my  father. 
Juba.     These    are    thy    triumphs,    thy    ex- 
ploits, O  Caesar! 
Luc.     Now   is   Rome   fallen   indeed! 

[CATO   brought   forward  in   his  chair. 
Cato.  Here   set   me   down — 

Portius,  come  near  me — are  my   friends  em- 
barked? 

Can  anything  be  thought  of  for  their  service? 
Whilst  I  yet  live,  let  me  not  live  in  vain. 
— O  Lucius,  art  thou  here? — thou  art  too 

good ! — 
Let    this     our    friendship     live    between    our 

children; 

Make  Portius  happy  in  thy  daughter  Lucia. 
Alas !  poor  man,  he  weeps ! — Marcia,  my 

daughter — 
—Oh    bend    me    forward! — Juba    loves    thee, 

Marcia. 

A  senator  of  Rome,  while  Rome  survived, 
Would  not  have  match'd  his  daughter  with 

a  king, 
But     Caesar's    arms    have    thrown    down    all 

distinction; 

Whoe'er  is  brave  and  virtuous,  is  a  Roman. — 
—I'm  sick  to  death— Oh  when  shall  I  get 

loose 
From  this  vain  world,  the  abode  of  guilt  and 

sorrow ! 
— And  yet  methinks  a  beam   of   light  breaks 

in 

On  my  departing  soul.     Alas !  I  fear 
I've    been     too    hasty !      O    ye    powers    that 

search 
The    heart    of    man,    and    weigh    his    inmost 

thoughts, 

If  I  have  done  amiss,  impute  it  not! — 
The  best  may  err,  but  you  are   good,  and — 

oh !  [Dies. 

Luc.     There    fled    the    greatest    soul    that 

ever  warmed 

A  Roman  breast.     O  Cato!  O  my  friend! 
Thy    will    shall    be    religiously    observed. 
But  let  us  bear  this  awful  corpse  to  Caesar, 
And  lay   it    in   his    sight,    that   it   may   stand 
A   fence   betwixt  us   and   the   victor's    wrath; 
Cato,    though    dead,     shall    still    protect    his 

friends. 
From    hence,   let  fierce   contending   nations 

know 

What  dire  effects  from  civil  discord  flow. 
'Tis     this     that     shakes     our     country     with 

alarms, 

And  gives  up  Rome  a  prey   to  Roman  arms, 
Produces  fraud,  and  cruelty,   and   strife, 
And  robs  the  guilty  world  of  Cato's  life. 


225 


RICHARD   STEELE 


THE    CONSCIOUS   LOVERS 


RICHARD  STEELE,  like  Farquhar,  Goldsmith,  and  Sheridan,  was  born  in 
Ireland  and  like  them  had  that  charm  which  in  one  manifestation  or  other 
is  generally  associated  with  the  Irish  character.  Whether  he  is  regarded 
in  his  personal  relations  with  Addison  and  Gibber,  and,  best  of  all,  with  "  dear 
Prue,"  or  in  his  varied  activities  as  tract-writer,  dramatist,  essayist,  and 
Member  of  Parliament,  or  in  his  chronic  plight  as  defendant  in  lawsuits  for 
debt,  he  always  commands  our  sympathy  and  wins  our  love.  He  is  also  none 
the  less  endeared  to  us  because,  while  constantly  and  sincerely  working  for 
reform  in  English  manners  and  morals  in  literature  and  life,  he  fell  largely 
because  of  good  fellowship  and  improvidence  into  many  of  the  errors  he 
condemned.  His  "  dear  ruler,"  his  creditors,  and  his  own  conscience  speedily 
lifted  him  up  to  the  standard  he  had  in  open  profession  set  for  himself ;  to- 
day our  charity  covers  a  multitude  of  his  sins. 

Born  in  Dublin  in  1672  and  left  an  orphan  about  five  years  later,  Steele 
was  cared  for  by  his  uncle,  Henry  Gascoigne,  through  whose  influence  he  was 
admitted  to  the  Charterhouse  in  1684.  Here  began  two  years  later  that 
friendship  with  Addison  which  was  continued  in  Oxford  and  which  lasted 
till  the  unhappy  break  only  two  months  before  Addison's  death.  It  is  char- 
acteristic of  the  two  men  that  the  proper  and  somewhat  conventional  Addison 
should  obtain  both  degrees  and  proceed  to  a  fellowship  and  that  the  erratic 
Steele  should  leave  the  university  without  a  degree  and  enlist  in  the  Duke  of 
Ormond's  guards  (1694).  From  now  on  his  life  was  full  and  varied.  His 
loyal  poem  on  the  death  of  Queen  Mary,  The  Procession  (1695),  won  him 
an  ensign's  commission,  and  by  1700  he  had  been  promoted  to  a  captaincy. 
While  in  the  army  he  furnished  his  first  public  record  of  the  difficulty  he 
always  found  in  living  up  to  his  religious  ideals.  The  struggle  was  par- 
ticularly hard  in  the  midst  of  his  military  associates,  as  was  shown  when 
much  against  his  principles  he  fought  a  duel.  Accordingly,  in  order  to 
strengthen  himself  and  others  in  godly  living,  he  wrote  The  Christian  Hero 
(1701),  in  which  he  showed  that  help  comes  not  from  the  classical  phi- 
losophers and  heroes,  but  from  Christ  and  St.  Paul,  who  taught  that  "the 
true  guide  in  conduct  is  conscience"  (Routh).  Whatever  spiritual  benefit 

226 


THE  CONSCIOUS  LOVERS 


Steele  may  have  received  from  this  pamphlet  was  immediately  if  not  com- 
pletely balanced  by  the  realization  "  that  from  being  thought  no  undelightful 
companion,  he  was  reckoned  a  disagreeable  fellow." 

Partly,  therefore,  "  to  enliven  his  character "  in  the  eyes  of  his  scoffing 
fellows  and  partly  to  help  in  the  reform  of  the  stage,  he  wrote  his  first 
comedy,  The  Funeral  or  Grief  a  la  Mode  (1701),  which  won  what  Gibber 
called  a  "  more  than  expected  success."  It  was  one  of  the  earliest  plays  to 
show  the  influence  for  good  that  the  aroused  Puritan  conscience  of  England 
had  effected,  especially  as  voiced  in  the  grating  tones  of  Jeremy  Collier's 
Short  View  of  the  Profaneness  and  Immorality  of  the  English  Stage  (1698). 
This  famous  treatise  was  not  so  much  the  cause  of  the  reform  as  the  sign 
that  the  people  were  disgusted  with  the  licentious  Restoration  comedy.  It 
was  a  sign,  too,  which  the  erring  dramatists  heeded,  so  that  Colley  Gibber 
justly  said  that  Collier's  "  calling  our  Dramatick  Writers  to  this  strict  Account 
had  a  very  wholesome  Effect  upon  those  who  writ  after  this  time.  They 
were  now  a  great  deal  more  upon  their  Guard ;  Indecencies  were  no  longer 
Wit;  and  by  degrees  the  Fair  Sex  came  again  to  fill  the  Boxes  on  the  first 
Day  of  a  new  Comedy  without  Fear  or  Censure."  Gibber  had  already,  two 
years  before  the  appearance  of  Collier's  counterblast,  shown  his  practical 
rather  than  any  distinctly  moral  sense  by  trimming  his  sails  to  the  veering 
wind  when  he  wrote  Love's  Last  Shift  (1696).  In  this  play  he  reached 
towards  the  new  without  parting  company  with  the  old  comedy,  for  he  de- 
voted four  acts  in  appealing  to  the  "  coarse  palates  "  of  the  gallants  and  the 
fifth  in  bringing  about  the  very  doubtful  reformation  of  the  "honest  rake." 
Vanbrugh's  sequel,  The  Relapse  (1697),  shows  with  what  little  seriousness 
this  reformation  was  taken.  Steele,  however,  was  actuated  by  higher  motives 
and  his  first  play  was  not  marred  by  pinchbeck  morality.  He  is  continuing 
in  the  theatre  the  reform  he  began  in  his  tract,  though,  of  course,  the  tone 
is  not  so  serious.  He  keeps  to  the  province  of  the  Wycherley  and  Congreve 
comedy,  that  of  the  domestic  relations,  but  his  purpose  is  entirely  different. 
The  blind  husband  sees  the  iniquity  of  his  wife,  who  is  duly  punished,  the 
victims  of  her  villainy  are  restored  to  their  rights,  and  virtue  is  triumphant. 
The  deceived  husband  is  no  longer  an  object  of  profane  mirth  and  the  sin- 
ners are  not  treated  as  fine  fellows.  The  comic  material,  as  throughout  in 
Steele's  comedies,  is  supplied  by  the  subordinate  characters,  who  furnish 
amusing  satire  such  as  Steele  gave  forth  abundantly  in  The  Taller  and  The 
Spectator.  So  we  have  the  ridiculous  funeral  director  and  his  mutes,  who 
persist  in  looking  cheerful  though  hired  to  be  dismal ;  the  pettifogging  law- 
yer's clerk,  and  the  raw  recruits,  fit  companions  for  Falstaff's  ragged  regi- 
ment. 

Having  succeeded  in  making,  as  he  said,  "  Virtue  and  Vice  appear  just 
as  they  ought  to  be,"  Steele  proceeded  two  years  later  to  "  write  a  comedy 
in  the  severity  [Collier]  required."  This  was  The  Lying  Lover  or  The 
Ladies'  Friendship  (1703).  Using  Corneille's  Le  Menteur  as  a  basis,  Steele 

227 


THE  CONSCIOUS  LOVERS 


inserted  a  scene  to  convey  the  lesson  he  would  teach  by  showing  the  remorse 
which  follows  murder  committed  in  drunkenness.  Of  this  scene  he  says: 
"  The  anguish  [Young  Bookwit]  there  expresses  and  the  mutual  sorrow 
between  an  only  child  and  a  tender  father  in  that  distress,  are,  perhaps,  an 
injury  to  the  rules  of  comedy,  but  I  am  sure  they  are  a  justice  to  those  of 
morality."  Here  is  the  first  unmistakable  evidence  of  the  new  sentimental 
comedy,  if  not  in  English  drama,  at  any  rate  in  Steele.  The  straining  after 
the  pathetic,  as  in  the  remorse  of  the  son  and  the  anguish  of  the  father,  is  a 
mark  of  what  was  replacing  the  abhorred  wit  of  the  Restoration  period. 
There  was,  too,  much  less  genuine  fun  in  this  play  than  in  the  first;  certain 
minor  characters  are  only  moderately  amusing.  We  are  not  surprised  to 
learn  that  the  play,  as  Steele  admits,  was  "  damned  for  its  piety." 

In  the  interval  between  Steele's  second  and  third  plays,  Gibber  produced 
The  Careless  Husband  (1704),  which  shows  the  progress  both  in  moral  re- 
form and  in  sentimentalism  in  the  drama.  The  moral  tone  is  finer  than  in 
Love's  Last  Shift,  and  the  reformation  is  felt  to  be  permanent.  The  senti- 
mental interest  is  plainly  shown  in  the  pathetic  situations,  as  when  the  noble 
wife  refuses  to  listen  to  evidence  of  her  husband's  wrongdoing,  and  to  re- 
proach him  for  infidelity  even  upon  her  own  discovery  of  it,  but  receives  him 
bitterly  repentant  of  his  sins.  Steele's  last  play  of  this  period,  The  Tender 
Husband  or  The  Accomplished  Fools  (1705),  violates  all  dramatic  propriety 
for  the  sake  of  the  sentimental  effect.  A  man  employs  his  mistress  in  the 
disguise  of  a  gallant  to  test  his  wife's  virtue;  the  experiment  is  succeeding 
all  too  well  for  the  man's  peace  of  mind  when  he  indignantly  bursts  from  con- 
cealment; after  a  vain  attempt  at  bravado  the  wife  faints,  implores  forgive- 
ness, and  is  received  into  the  tender  husband's  arms.  Poetic  justice  has  be- 
come gushing  sentimentality  and  a  mock  is  made  of  genuine  morality.  Much 
healthier  and  more  in  keeping  with  dramatic  propriety  are  the  comic  scenes, 
which  have  also  a  moral  purpose  after  the  fashion  of  Steele's  later  journal- 
istic satire.  They  deal  with  the  relations  of  parents  to  children  and  depict 
the  wholly  admirable  Biddy  Tipkin,  who,  with  her  head  crammed  with 
French  romances,  will  be  wooed  only  by  a  lover  as  valiant  and  fine  as  Oroon- 
dates  so  that  there  is  no  doing  anything  with  her,  and  the  equally  amusing 
Humphry  Gubbin,  who  breaks  from  his  father's  tyranny  and  marries  to  suit 
himself.  Humphry  harks  back  to  Ben  in  Congreve's  Love  for  Love  and 
looks  forward  to  Goldsmith's  Tony  Lumpkin ;  his  father  is  of  the  same  type 
as  Fielding's  Squire  Western. 

The  Tender  Husband  was  not  a  financial  success,  and  Steele  had  to  turn 
to  other  occupations  to  keep  the  bailiff  from  the  door.  Two  appointments, 
one  as  Gentleman  Waiter  to  Prince  George  of  Denmark  at  £100 
a  year  (1706),  the  other  as  Gazetteer  at  £300  a  year  with  a  tax 
of  £45  (1707),  did  not  furnish  enough  for  one  of  his  mercurial  dis- 
position. His  first  marriage  in  1705  and  his  second  to  Mistress  Mary 
Scurlock  in  1707  brought  him  a  nominally  large  but  not  always  a  collectable 

228 


THE  CONSCIOUS  LOVERS 


income.  The  pressure  of  debt  and  his  inventive  genius  led  to  his  founding 
The  Toiler,  The  Spectator,  and  their  successors. 

In  these  papers  Steele  reached  a  greater  public  than  he  did  in  the  theatre, 
and  even  in  the  reform  of  the  drama  his  essays  had  more  weight  than  his 
plays.  Gibber  testified  in  his  Preface  to  Ximena  (1719):  "How  often 
have  we  known  the  most  excellent  audience  drawn  together  at  a  day's  warn- 
ing, by  the  influence  or  warrant  of  a  single  Tatler,  in  a  season  when  our 
best  endeavors  without  it  could  not  defray  the  charge  of  the  performance!" 
It  was  particularly  in  his  essays  on  the  domestic  relations  that  he  was  a 
civilizing  force,  as  he  had  also  tried  to  be  in  his  plays.  His  delightful  letters 
to  "  dear  Prue,"  so  charming  in  their  naivete,  in  their  revelation  of  the  man's 
foibles  and  failings  and  above  all  of  his  surpassing  goodness  of  heart  testify 
to  his  perfect  sincerity  and  sympathy.  This  sympathy  at  times  runs  into 
"  lachrymose  sensibility  "  and  becomes  part  of  the  sentimentality  which  was 
already  developing  in  the  comedies  and  which  was  to  find  full  expression  in 
his  last  play. 

His  journalistic  work  led  him  into  politics,  which  influenced  The  Guardian 
(1713)  and  dominated  The  Englishman  (1713).  He  was  elected  to  Parlia- 
ment (1713),  expelled  within  a  year  for  seditious  articles,  and  re-elected  and 
knighted  in  1715.  He  was  brought  again  into  closer  touch  with  the  theatre 
by  being  made  supervisor  of  Drury  Lane  Theatre  (1715),  a  connection 
which  he  held  with  only  slight  interruptions  till  his  death  in  retirement  in 
1729- 

There  are  references  to  The  Conscious  Lovers,  Steele's  last  complete  play, 
as  early  as  1720.  The  first  title  announced  was  The  Unfashionable  Lovers, 
or,  as  others  said,  The  Fine  Gentleman.  When  it  was  acted  on  November 
7,  1722,  Mrs.  Oldfield,  Mrs.  Younger,  Booth,  Wilks,  and  Gibber  were  in  the 
cast;  and  to  its  being  in  "every  part  excellently  performed"  Steele  ascribed 
its  "  universal  acceptance."  It  had  the  unusual  run  of  eighteen  consecutive 
nights  and  later  in  the  season  of  eight  more.  By  this  time  the  sentimental 
comedy  was  established  in  popular  favor,  and  Steele's  play  is  a  good  speci- 
men of  the  type.  The  moral  note  is  struck  in  the  Preface :  "  Nor  do  I  make 
any  difficulty  to  acknowledge  that  the  whole  was  writ  for  the  sake  of  the 
scene  of  the  Fourth  Act,  wherein  Mr.  Bevil  evades  the  quarrel  with  his 
friend,  and  hope  it  may  have  some  effect  upon  the  Goths  and  Vandals  that 
frequent  the  theatre,  or  a  polite  audience  may  supply  their  absence."  The 
more  general  moral  purpose  is  expressed  in  the  Prologue,  where  Welsted  en- 
treats the  Britons  for  aid  in  reforming  the  theatre: 

"  'Tis   yours   with   breeding   to  refine   the   age, 
To  chasten  wit  and  moralize  the  stage." 

As  Routh  has  well  pointed  out,  we  have  in  this  play  a  brief  exposition  of 
all  Steele's  "  best  ideas  on  life  and  character," — the  sketch  of  servants  under- 

229 


THE  CONSCIOUS  LOVERS 


going  the  corruption  of  lackeydom;  "satire  on  marriages  of  convenience, 
duelling,  and  the  chicanery  of  the  law ;  and  a  glance  at  the  opposition  between 
the  hereditary  gentry  and  the  rising  commercial  class  " ;  while  in  Bevil,  Jr.,_ 
we  have  the  portrayal  of  the  ideal  young  man.  There  is  no  hero  in  Steele's 
early  comedies  quite  so  admirable  as  this  one.  His  fine  sense  of  honor 
which  forbids  his  proposing  marriage  to  his  beloved  because  he  has  not  re- 
ceived his  father's  approval  strikes  us  as  quixotic,  especially  since  he  has 
made  no  effort  to  secure  this  approval.  The  moral  obliquities  he  resorts  to 
in  order  to  remain  obedient  to  his  father  and  faithful  to  his  beloved  betray 
the  inherent  weakness  of  honor  based  on  mere  sentimentality.  He  is  so 
anxious  to  be  upright  that  he  bends  over  backward.  On  the  other  hand,  we 
must  admire  his  stand  on  the  matter  of  duelling,  for  it  is  Steele  and  not 
merely  Bevil  that  is  speaking.  It  took  more  courage  then  to  refuse  than  to 
fight  a  duel.  All  Bevil's  noble  conduct  is,  however,  charged  with  senti- 
mentalism  that  suggests  priggishness.  Equally  sentimental  are  his  speeches : 
"This  charming  vision  of  Mirza!  Such  an  author  consulted  in  a  morning 
sets  the  spirit  for  the  vicissitudes  of  the  day  better  than  the  glass  does  a 
lady's  person."  And  at  the  end  of  this  noble  soliloquy  he  resolves  on  his 
"  honest  dissimulation "  to  deceive  his  father !  And  what  a  flood  of  senti- 
ment is  poured  forth  in  the  dialogue  between  him  and  Indiana  in  Act  II,  as 
when  he  says:  "If  pleasure  be  worth  purchasing,  how  great  a  pleasure  is 
it  to  him,  who  has  a  true  task  of  life,  to  ease  an  aching  heart;  to  see  the 
human  countenance  lighted  up  into  smiles  of  joy,  on  the  receipt  of  a  bit  of 
ore  which  is  superfluous  and  otherwise  useless  in  a  man's  own  pocket?  " 

Just  as  excellent  and  only  less  sentimental  is  the  heroine  Indiana.  She 
loves  but  dares  not  say  so ;  she  endures  Bevil's  silence  with  the  patience  of 
Griselda ;  his  apparent  disregard  of  everything  but  her  physical  welfare  she 
accepts  with  that  exalted  faith  which  sees  nothing  but  perfect  probity  in  his 
conduct.  She  also  submits  willingly  to  be  investigated  by  the  potential 
enemy  of  her  happiness,  and  almost  at  his  first  word  breaks  into  ready  tears ; 
she  pities  herself  as  "  wretched,  helpless,  friendless,"  even  though  Bevil  has 
treated  her  and  her  devoted  aunt  with  unexampled  kindness ;  she  finally  rises 
to  a  frenzy  of  expostulation  against  Fate  which  results  in  her  identity 
being  revealed  and  her  woes  coming  to  an  end. 

The  comic  business  is,  as  usual,  supplied  by  the  minor  characters.  Tom 
and  Phillis,  already  faintly  sketched  in  No.  87  of  The  Guardian,  are  admir- 
able, and  they  furnish  all  that  remains  of  the  sparkling  dialogue  of  the 
Restoration  comedy.  Cimberton  is  a  sort  of  high-class  booby,  who  cor- 
responds in  his  sheer  vulgarity  to  Humphry  Gubbin  of  The  Tender  Husband. 
He  is  so  outrageous  as  to  be  really  comic.  One  should  not  condemn  him 
with  the  tremendous  solemnity  of  John  Dennis,  if  for  no  other  reason  than 
that  he  furnishes  the  opportunity  for  satirizing  the  prudery  of  Mrs.  Sea- 
land.  The  parodying  of  legal  jargon  in  the  mouths  of  Bramble  and  Target 
must  have  given  a  melancholy  joy  to  Steele,  who  was  all  too  familiar  with 

230 


THE  CONSCIOUS  LOVERS 


the  sound  of  it  in  the  court-room.  Indeed,  these  pettifogging  lawyers,  who 
recall  the  clerk  in  The  Funeral,  are  really  dragged  in  for  the  sake  of  the 
satire,  for  they  do  not  develop  the  plot. 

It  is  the  comic  matter  that  constitutes  the  main  difference  between  The 
Conscious  Lovers  and  its  source,  the  Andria  of  Terence.  Phillis  is  much 
developed  beyond  her  shadowy  prototype  Mysis,  and  Tom  is  far  more 
amusing  than  Davus,  who  is  the  conventionally  clever  servant  of  Latin 
comedy.  The  part  of  Cimberton  and  the  moderately  comic  situations  in 
which  he  moves  are  wholly  original.  Other  differences  are  in  the  averted 
duel,  which  is  built  on  an  incipient  quarrel  in  Terence;  in  the  accident  by 
which  the  love  affair  of  the  hero  is  discovered  by  his  father,  more  simply 
and  reasonably  introduced  in  the  Latin  than  in  the  English  version ;  in  the 
highly  moral  relations  of  the  modern  hero  and  heroine,  very  proper  in 
sentimental  comedy ;  in  the  scene  taken  to  disclose  the  identity  of  the  heroine 
and  thereby  to  bring  the  play  to  a  happy  issue,  which  is  more  naturally 
accomplished  by  Terence  than  by  Steele.  The  plot  of  the  Latin  play  is  more 
compact  and  the  sequence  of  events  more  natural;  but  the  English  play  has 
livelier  action  and  richer  characterization. 

John  Dennis  attacked  this  comedy  with  much  personal  virulence  tempered 
with  some  just  criticism.  Fielding  with  his  usual  good  sense  put  his  finger 
on  the  essential  weakness  of  the  play,  when  he  made  Parson  Adams  say  of 
it  and  Addison's  tragedy :  "  I  never  read  of  any  plays  fit  for  a  Christian  to 
read,  but  Cato  and  The  Conscious  Lovers;  and,  I  must  own,  in  the  latter 
there  are  some  things  almost  solemn  enough  for  a  sermon."  To  such  a  pass 
has  the  drama  arrived  in  the  twenty-two  years  since  The  Way  of  the  World 
was  published.  It  was  to  become  worse  before  Goldsmith  and  Sheridan 
rescued  it  from  the  thraldom  of  smug  morality  and  sentimentalism. 


THE    CONSCIOUS   LOVERS 


"  Illud  genus  narrationis,  quod  in  personis  positum  est,  debet  habere 
sermonis  festivitatem,  animorum  dis,similitudinem,  gravitatem,  lenitatem, 
spem,  metum,  suspicionem,  desiderium,  dissimulationem,  misericordiam,  reruro 
varietates,  fortunae  commutationem,  insperatum  incommodum,  subitam  leti- 
tiam,  jucundum  exitum  rerum."  * — CICERO,  Rhetor,  ad  Herenn.  Lib.  i. 

1  The  kind  of  narrative  which  is  presented  on  the  stage  ought  to  be 
marked  by  gaiety  of  dialogue,  diversity  of  character,  seriousness,  tenderness, 
hope,  fear,  suspicion,  desire,  pity,  variety  of  events,  changes  of  fortune,  un- 
expected disaster,  sudden  joy,  and  a  happy  ending. 


231 


ACT  I,  Sc.  I. 


THE  CONSCIOUS  LOVERS 


DRAMATIS  PERSONS 


SIR  JOHN  BEVIL. 

MR.  SEALAND. 

BEVIL,  JUN.,  m  love  with  INDIANA. 

MYRTLE,  in  love  with   LUCINDA. 

CIMBERTON,   a  Coxcomb. 

HUMPHRY,  on  old  Servant  to  SIR  JOHN. 

TOM,  Sen-ant  to  BEVIL,   JUN. 

DANIEL,   a  Country   Boy,   Sen-ant   to   INDIANA. 


MRS.   SEALAND,  second  Wife  to  SEALAND. 

ISABELLA,  Sister  to    SEALAND. 

INDIANA,  SEALAND'S    Daughter,     by     his    first 

Wife. 

Luci^BA,  SEALAND'S  Daughter,   by   his  second 

Wife. 

PHILLIS,  Maid    to    LUCINDA. 


SCENE. — LONDON. 


ACT  THE    FIRST 

SCENE  I 

SIR  JOHN  BEVIL'S  House. 
Enter  SIR  JOHN    BEVIL   and   HUMPHRY. 

Sir  J.  Bev.  Have  you  ordered  that  I 
should  not  be  interrupted  while  I  am 
dressing  ? 

Humph.  Yes,  sir;  I  believed  you  had 
something  of  moment  to  say  to  me. 

Sir  J.  Bev.  Let  me  see,  Humphry;  I 
think  it  is  now  full  forty  years  since  I 
first  took  thee  to  be  about  myself. 

Humph.  I  thank  you,  sir,  it  has  been  an 
easy  forty  years;  and  I  have  passed  'em 
without  much  -sickness,  care,  or  labor. 

Sir  J.  Bev.  Thou  hast  a  brave  constitu- 
tion; you  are  a  year  or  two  older  than  I 
am,  sirrah. 

Humph.  You  have  ever  been  of  that 
mind,  sir. 

Sir  J.  Bev.  You  knave,  you  know  it;  I 
took  thee  for  thy  gravity  and  sobriety,  in 
my  wild  years. 

Humph.  Ah,  sir!  our  manners  were 
formed  from  our  different  fortunes,  not  our 
different  age.  Wealth  gave  a  loose  to  your 
youth,  and  poverty  put  a  restraint  upon 
mine. 

Sir  J.  Bev.  Well,  Humphry,  you  know  I 
have  been  a  kind  master  to  you;  I  have 
used  you,  for  the  ingenuous  nature  I  ob- 
served in  you  from  the  beginning,  more  like 
an  humble  friend  than  a  servant. 

Humph.  I  humbly  beg  you'll  be  so  tender 
of  me  as  to  explain  your  commands,  sir, 
without  any  farther  preparation. 

Sir  J.  Bev.  I'll  tell  thee,  then:  In  the 
first  place,  this  wedding  of  my  son's  in  all 
probability  (shut  the  door)  will  never  be  at 
all. 

Humph.  How,  sir!  not  be  at  all?  for  what 
reason  is  it  carried  on  in  appearance? 

Sir  J.  Bev.  Honest  Humphry,  have  pa- 
tience; and  I'll  tell  thee  all  in  order.  I  have, 
myself,  in  some  part  of  my  life,  lived  (in- 
deed) with  freedom,  but,  I  hope,  without  re- 


proach. Now,  I  thought  liberty  would  be  as 
little  injurious  to  my  son;  therefore,  as  soon 
as  he  grew  towards  man,  I  indulged  him  in 
living  after  his  own  manner.  I  knew  not 
how,  otherwise,  to  judge  of  his  inclination; 
for  what  can  be  concluded  from  a  behavior 
under  restraint  and  fear?  But  what  charms 
me  above  all  expression  is,  that  my  son  has 
never,  in  the  least  action,  the  most  distant 
hint  or  word,  valued  himself  upon  that  great 
estate  of  his  mother's,  which,  according  to 
our  marriage  settlement,  he  has  had  ever 
since  he  came  to  age. 

Humph.  No,  sir;  on  the  contrary,  he 
seems  afraid  of  appearing  to  enjoy  it,  before 
you  or  any  belonging  to  you.  He  is  as 
dependent  and  resigned  to  your  will  as  if  he 
had  not  a  farthing  but  what  must  come  from 
your  immediate  bounty.  You  have  ever 
acted  like  a  good  and  generous  father,  and 
he  like  an  obedient  and  grateful  son. 

Sir  J.  Bev.  Nay,  his  carriage  is  so  easy 
to  all  with  whom  he  converses,  that  he  is 
never  assuming,  never  prefers  himself  to 
others,  nor  ever  is  guilty  of  that  rough 
sincerity  which  a  man  is  not  called  to,  and 
certainly  disobliges  most  of  his  acquaint- 
ance; to  be  short,  Humphry,  his  reputation 
was  so  fair  in  the  world,  that  old  Sealand, 
the  great  India  merchant,  has  offered  his 
only  daughter,  and  sole  heiress  to  that  vast 
estate  of  his,  as  a  wife  for  him.  You  may 
be  sure  I  made  no  difficulties,  the  match 
was  agreed  on,  and  this  very  day  named  for 
the  wedding. 

Humph.     What   hinders   the   proceed-'ng? 

Sir  J.  Bev.  Don't  interrupt  me.  You 
know  I  was  last  Thursday  at  the  mas- 
querade; my  son,  you  may  remember,  soon 
found  us  out.  He  knew  his  grandfather's 
habit,  which  I  then  wore;  and  though  it  was 
the  mode,  in  the  last  age,  yet  the  masquers, 
you  know,  followed  us  as  if  we  had  been 
the  most  monstrous  figures  in  that  whole 
assembly. 

Humph.  I  remember,  indeed,  a  young 
man  of  quality  in  the  habit  of  a  clown,  that 
was  particularly  troublesome. 


232 


THE  CONSCIOUS  LOVERS 


ACT  I,  Sc.  I. 


Sir  J.  Bev.  Right;  he  was  too  much  what 
he  seemed  to  be.  You  remember  how  im- 
pertinently he  followed  and  teased  us,  and 
would  know  who  we  were. 

Humph.  I  know  he  has  a  mind  to  come 
into  that  particular.  [Aside. 

Sir  J.  Bev.  Ay,  he  followed  us  till  the 
gentleman  who  led  the  lady  in  the  Indian 
mantle  presented  that  gay  creature  to  the 
rustic,  and  bid  him  (like  Cymon  in  the 
fable)  grow  polite  by  falling  in  love,  and 
let  that  worthy  old  gentleman  alone,  mean- 
ing me.  The  clown  was  not  reformed,  but 
rudely  persisted,  and  offered  to  force  off  my 
mask;  with  that,  the  gentleman,  throwing 
off  his  own,  appeared  to  be  my  son,  and  in 
his  concern  for  me,  tore  off  that  of  the 
nobleman;  at  this  they  seized  each  other; 
the  company  called  the  guards,  and  in  the 
surprise  the  lady  swooned  away;  upon  which 
my  son  quitted  his  adversary,  and  had  now 
no  care  but  of  the  lady.  When  raising  her 
in  his  arms,  "  Art  thou  gone,"  cried  he,  "  for 
ever  ?— forbid  it,  Heaven !  "  She  revives  at 
his  known  voice,  and  with  the  most  familiar, 
though  modest,  gesture,  hangs  in  safety  over 
his  shoulder  weeping,  but  wept  as  in  the 
arms  of  one  before  whom  she  could  give 
herself  a  loose,  were  she  not  under  observa- 
tion; while  she  hides  her  face  in  his  neck, 
he  carefully  conveys  her  from  the  company. 

Humph.  I  have  observed  this  accident  has 
dwelt  upon  you  very  strongly. 

Sir  J.  Bev.  Her  uncommon  air,  her  noble 
modesty,  the  dignity  of  her  person,  and  the 
occasion  itself,  drew  the  whole  assembly  to- 
gether; and  I  soon  heard  it  buzzed  about  she 
was  the  adopted  daughter  of  a  famous  sea- 
officer  who  had  served  in  France.  Now  this 
unexpected  and  public  discovery  of  my  son's 
so  deep  concern  for  her 

Humph.  Was  what,  I  suppose,  alarmed 
Mr.  Sealand,  in  behalf  of  his  daughter,  to 
break  off  the  match? 

Sir  J.  Bev.  You  are  right.  He  came  to 
me  yesterday  and  said  he  thought  himself 
disengaged  from  the  bargain;  being  credibly 
informed  my  son  was  already  married,  or 
worse,  to  the  lady  at  the  masquerade.  I 
palliated  matters,  and  insisted  on  our  agree- 
ment; but  we  parted  with  little  less  than  a 
direct  breach  between  us. 

Humph.  Well,  sir;  and  what  notice  have 
you  taken  of  all  this  to  my  young  master? 

Sir  J.  Bev.  That's  what  I  wanted  to  de- 
bate with  you.  I  have  said  nothing  to  him 
yet — but  look  you,  Humphry,  if  there  is  so 
much  in  this  amour  of  his,  that  he  denies 
upon  my  summons  to  marry,  I  have  cause 
enough  to  be  offended;  and  then  by  my 
insisting  upon  his  marrying  to-day,  I  shall 
know  how  far  he  is  engaged  to  this  lady  in 
masquerade,  and  from  thence  only  shall  be 
able  to  take  my  measures.  In  the  meantime 


I    would    have    you    find    out    how    far 
rogue,   his   man,   is   let   into   his   secret. 


that 
He, 


I  know,  will  play  tricks  as  much  to  cross 
me,  as  to  serve  his  master. 

Humph.  Why  do  you  think  so  of  him,  sir? 
I  believe  he  is  no  worse  than  I  was  for  you, 
at  your  son's  age. 

Sir  J.  Bev.  I  see  it  in  the  rascal's  looks. 
But  I  have  dwelt  on  these  things  too  long; 
I'll  go  to  my  son  immediately,  and  while 
I'm  gone,  your  part  is  to  convince  his  rogue, 
Tom,  that  I  am  in  earnest. — I'll  leave  him  to 
you.  [Exit-  SIR  JOHN  BEVIL. 

Humph.  Well,  though  this  father  and  son 
live  as  well  together  as  possible,  yet  their 
fear  of  giving  each  other  pain  is  attended 
with  constant  mutual  uneasiness.  I'm  sure 
I  have  enough  to  do  to  be  honest,  and  yet 
keep  well  with  them  both.  But  they  know 
I  love  'em,  and  that  makes  the  task  less 
painful  however.  Oh,  here's  the  prince  of 
poor  coxcombs,  the  representative  of  all  the 
better  fed  than  taught.  Ho!  ho!  Tom, 
whither  so  gay  and  so  airy  this  morning? 

Enter   TOM,    singing. 

Tom.  Sir,  we  servants  of  single  gentle- 
men are  another  kind  of  people  than  you 
domestic  ordinary  drudges  that  do  business; 
we  are  raised  above  you.  The  pleasures  of 
board  wages,  tavern  dinners,  and  many  a 
clear  gain;  vails,  alas!  you  never  heard  or 
dreamt  of. 

Humph.  Thou  hast  follies  and  vices 
enough  for  a  man  of  ten  thousand  a  year, 
though  'tis  but  as  t'other  day  that  I  sent 
for  you  to  town  to  put  you  into  Mr.  Sea- 
land's  family,  that  you  might  learn  a  little 
before  I  put  you  to  my  young  master,  who 
is  too  gentle  for  training  such  a  rude  thing 
as  you  were  into  proper  obedience.  You 
then  pulled  off  your  hat  to  everyone  you 
met  in  the  street,  like  a  bashful  great  awk- 


ward   cub    as    you    were.      But 
oaken   cudgel,    when   you   were 


your     great 
booby,    be- 


came you  much  better  than  that  dangling 
stick  at  your  button,  now  you  are  a  fop. 
That's  fit  for  nothing,  except  it  hangs  there 
to  be  ready  for  your  master's  hand  when 
you  are  impertinent. 

Tom.  Uncle  Humphry,  you  know  my 
master  scorns  to  strike  his  servants.  You 
talk  as  if  the  world  was  now  just  as  it 
was  when  my  old  master  and  you  were  in 
your  youth;  when  you  went  to  dinner  be- 
cause it  was  so  much  o'clock,  when  the 
great  blow  was  given  in  the  hall  at  the 
pantry  door,  and  all  the  family  came  out 
of  their  holes  in  such  strange  dresses  and 
formal  faces  as  you  see  in  the  pictures  in 
our  long  gallery  in  the  country. 

Humph.     Why,   you  wild   rogue! 

Tom.  You  could  not  fall  to  your  dinner 
till  a  formal  fellow  in  a  black  gown  said 


233 


ACT  I,  Sc.  I. 


THE  CONSCIOUS  LOVERS 


something  over  the  meat,  as  if  the  cook  had 
not  made  it  ready  enough. 

Humph.  Sirrah,  who  do  you  prate  after? 
Despising  men  of  sacred  characters  !  I  hope 
you  never  heard  my  good  young  master  talk 
so  like  a  profligate. 

Tom.  Sir,  I  say  you  put  upon  me,  when 
I  first  came  to  town,  about  being  orderly, 
and  the  doctrine  of  wearing  shams  to  make 
linen  last  clean  a  fortnight,  keeping  my 
clothes  fresh,  and  wearing  a  frock  within 
doors. 

Humph.  Sirrah,  I  gave  you  those  lessons 
because  I  supposed  at  that  time  your  mas- 
ter and  you  might  have  dined  at  home  every 
day,  and  cost  you  nothing;  then  you  might 
have  made  a  good  family  servant.  But  the 
gang  you  have  frequented  since  at  choco- 
late houses  and  taverns,  in  a  continual  round 
of  noise  and  extravagance  - 

Tom.  I  don't  know  what  you  heavy  in- 
mates call  noise  and  extravagance;  but  we 
gentlemen,  •who  are  well  fed,  and  cut  a 
figure,  sir,  think  it  a  fine  life,  and  that  we 
must  be  very  pretty  fellows  who  are  kept 
only  to  be  looked  at. 

Humph.  Very  well,  sir,  I  hope  the  fashion 
of  being  lewd  and  extravagant,  despising  of 
decency  and  order,  is  almost  at  an  end,  since 
it  is  arrived  at  persons  of  your  quality. 

Tom.  Master  Humphry,  ha!  ha!  you  were 
an  unhappy  lad  to  be  sent  up  to  town  in 
such  queer  days  as  you  were.  Why,  now, 
sir,  the  lackeys  are  the  men  of  pleasure  of 
the  age,  the  top  gamesters;  and  many  a 
laced  coat  about  town  have  had  their  educa- 
tion in  our  party-colored  regiment.  We 
are  false  lovers;  have  a  taste  of  music, 
poetry,  billet-doux,  dress,  politics;  ruin 
damsels;  and  when  we  are  weary  of  this  lewd 
town,  and  have  a  mind  to  take  up,  whip  into 
our  masters'  wigs  and  linen,  and  marry  for- 
tunes. 

Humph.     Hey-day  ! 

Tom.  Nay,  sir,  our  order  is  carried  up  to 
the  highest  dignities  and  distinctions;  step 
but  into  the  Painted  Chamber,  and  by  our 
titles  you'd  take  us  all  for  men  of  quality. 
Then,  again,  come  down  to  the  Court  of 
Requests,  and  you  see  us  all  laying  our 
broken  heads  together  for  the  good  of  the 
nation;  and  though  we  never  carry  a  ques- 
tion nemine  contradicente,  yet  this  I  can 
say,  with  a  safe  conscience  (and  I  wish  every 
gentleman  of  our  cloth  could  lay  his  hand 
upon  his  heart  and  say  the  same),  that  I 
never  took  so  much  as  a  single  mug  of  beer 
for  my  vote  in  all  my  life. 

Humph.  Sirrah,  there  is  no  enduring  your 
extravagance;  I'll  hear  you  prate  no  longer. 
I  wanted  to  see  you  to  enquire  how  things 
go  with  your  master,  as  far  as  you  under- 
stand them;  I  suppose  he  knows  he  is  to  be 


married  to-day. 


Tom.  Ay,  sir,  he  knows  it,  and  is  dressed 
as  gay  as  the  sun;  but,  between  you  and 
I,  my  dear,  he  has  a  very  heavy  heart  under 
all  that  gaiety.  As  soon  as  he  was  dressed 
I  retired,  but  overheard  him  sigh  in  the 
most  heavy  manner.  He  walked  thought- 
fully to  and  fro  in  the  room,  then  went  into 
his  closet;  when  he  came  out  he  gave  me 


this     for 
know 

Humph. 
person. 

Tom.     The 


his     mistress,     whose     maid,     you 
Is  passionately  fond  of  your  fine 
poor    fool    is    so    tender,    and 


loves  to  hear  me  talk  of  the  world,  and  the 
plays,  operas,  and  ridottos  for  the  winter, 
the  parks  and  Belsize  for  our  summer  diver- 
sions; and  "Lard!"  says  she,  "you  are  so 
wild,  but  you  have  a  world  of  humor." 

Humph.  Coxcomb!  Well,  but  why  don't 
you  run  with  your  master's  letter  to  Mrs. 
Lucinda,  as  he  ordered  you? 

Tom.  Because  Mrs.  Lucinda  is  not  so 
easily  come  at  as  you  think  for. 

Humph.  Not  easily  come  at?  Why,  sir- 
rah, are  not  her  father  and  my  old  master 
agreed  that  she  and  Mr.  Bevil  are  to  be  one 
flesh  before  to-morrow  morning? 

Tom.  It's  no  matter  for  that;  her  mother, 
it  seems,  Mrs.  Sealand,  has  not  agreed  to  it; 
and  you  must  know,  Mr.  Humphry,  that  in 
that  family  the  grey  mare  is  the  better 
horse. 

Humph.     What   dost   thou   mean? 

Tom.  In  one  word,  Mrs.  Sealand  pre- 
tends to  have  a  will  of  her  own,  and  has 
provided  a  relation  of  hers,  a  stiff,  starched 
philosopher,  and  a  wise  fool,  for  her  daugh- 
ter; for  which  reason,  for  these  ten  days 
past,  she  has  suffered  no  message  nor  let- 
ter from  my  master  to  come  near  her. 

Humph.  And  where  had  you  this  intelli- 
gence ? 

Tom.  From  a  foolish  fond  soul  that  can 
keep  nothing  from  me;  one  that  will  deliver 
this  letter  too,  if  she  is  rightly  managed. 

Humph.  What!  her  pretty  handmaid, 
Mrs.  Phillis? 

Tom.  Even  she,  sir;  this  is  the  very 
hour,  you  know,  she  usually  comes  hither, 
under  a  pretence  of  a  visit  to  your  house- 
keeper, forsooth,  but  in  reality  to  have  a 
glance  at 

Humph.     Your   sweet   face,   I   warrant   you. 

Tom.  Nothing  else  in  nature;  you  must 
know,  I  love  to  fret  and  play  with  the  little 
wanton. 

Humph.  Play  with  the  little  wanton! 
What  will  this  world  come  to! 

Tom.  I  met  her  this  morning  in  a  new 
manteau  and  petticoat,  not  a  bit  the  worse 
for  her  lady's  wearing;  and  she  has  always 
new  thoughts  and  new  airs  with  new 
clothes— then  she  never  fails  to  steal  some 


glance    or    gesture    from    every    visitant    at 

234 


THE  CONSCIOUS  LOVERS 


ACT  I,  Sc.  I. 


their  house;   and   is,   indeed,   the   whole   town 


of 


d-hand.      But    here    she 


conies;  in  one  motion  she  speaks  and  de- 
scribes herself  better  than  all  the  words  in 
the  world  can. 

Humph.  Then  I  hope,  dear  sir,  when  your 
own  affair  is  over,  you  will  be  so  good  as 
to  mind  your  master's  with  her. 

Tom.  Dear  Humphry,  you  know  my  mas- 
ter is  my  friend,  and  those  are  people  I 
never  forget. 

Humph.  Sauciness  itself!  but  I'll  leave 
you  to  do  your  best  for  him.  _  [Exit. 

Enter  PHILLIS. 

Phil.  Oh,  Mr.  Thomas,  is  Mrs.  Sugar- 
key  at  home?  Lard,  one  is  almost  ashamed 
to  pass  along  the  streets  !  The  town  is 
quite  empty,  and  nobody  of  fashion  left  in 
it;  and  the  ordinary  people  do  so  stare  to  see 
anything  dressed  like  a  woman  of  condi- 
tion, as  it  were  on  the  same  floor  with  them, 
pass  by.  Alas!  alas!  it  is  a  sad  thing  to 
walk.  O  fortune!  fortune! 

Tom.  What!  a  sad  thing  to  walk?  Why, 
Madam  Phillis,  do  you  wish  yourself  lame? 

Phil.  No,  Mr.  Tom,  but  I  wish  I  were 
generally  carried  in  a  coach  or  chair,  and  of 
a  fortune  neither  to  stand  nor  go,  but  to 
totter,  or  slide,  to  be  short-sighted,  or 
stare,  to  fleer  in  the  face,  to  look  distant,  to 
observe,  to  overlook,  yet  all  become  me; 
and,  if  I  was  rich,  I  could  twire  and  loll  as 
well  as  the  best  of  them.  Oh,  Tom  !  Tom  ! 
is  it  not  a  pity  that  you  should  be  so  great 
a  coxcomb,  and  I  so  great  a  coquet,  and 
yet  be  such  poor  devils  as  we  are? 

Tom.  Mrs.  Phillis,  I  am  your  humble 
servant  for  that  - 

Phil.  Yes,  Mr.  Thomas,  I  know  how 
much  you  are  my  humble  servant, 
and  know  what  you  said  to  Mrs.  Judy, 
upon  seeing  her  in  one  of  her  lady's 
cast  manteaus:  That  any  one  would  have 
thought  her  the  lady,  and  that  she  had  or- 
dered the  other  to  wear  it  till  it  sat  easy; 
for  now  only  it  was  becoming.  To  my  lady 
it  was  only  a  covering,  to  Mrs.  Judy  it  was 
a  habit.  This  you  said,  after  somebody  or 
other.  Oh,  Tom!  Tom!  thou  art  as  false 
and  as  base  as  the  best  gentleman  of  them 
all;  but,  you  wretch,  talk  to  me  no  more 
on  the  old  odious  subject  —  don't,  I  say. 

Tom.  I  know  not  how  to  resist  your 
commands,  madam. 

[In    a    submissive    tone,    retiring. 

Phil.  Commands  about  parting  are  grown 
mighty  easy  to  you  of  late. 

Tom.  Oh,  I  have  her;  I  have  nettled  and 
put  her  into  the  right  temper  to  be  wrought 
upon  and  set  a-prating.  [Aside.']  —  Why,  truly, 
to  be  plain  with  you,  Mrs.  Phillis,  I  can  take 
little  comfort  of  late  in  frequenting  your 
house. 


Phil.  Pray,  Mr.  Thomas,  what  is  it  all  of 
a  sudden  offends  your  nicety  at  our  house? 

Tom.  I  don't  care  to  speak  particulars, 
but  I  dislike  the  whole. 

Phil.  I  thank  you,  sir,  I  am  a  part  of 
that  whole. 


Mistake   me    not,    good   Phillis. 
Good    Phillis!     Saucy    enough.     But 


Tom. 

Phil. 
however 

Tom.  I  say,  it  is  that  thou  art  a  part, 
which  gives  me  pain  for  the  disposition  of 
the  whole.  You  must  know,  madam,  to  be 
serious,  I  am  a  man,  at  the  bottom,  of 
prodigious  nice  honor.  You  are  too  much 
exposed  to  company  at  your  house.  To  be 
plain,  I*  don't  like  so  many,  that  would 
be  your  distress's  lovers,  whispering  to 
you. 

Phil.  Don't  think  to  put  that  upon  me. 
You  say  this,  because  I  wrung  you  to  the 
heart  when  I  touched  your  guilty  con- 
science about  Judy. 

Tom.  Ah,  Phillis!  Phillis!  if  you  but 
knew  my  heart! 

Phil.     I   know    too   much   on't. 

Tom.  Nay,  then,  poor  Crispo's  fate  and 
mine  are  one.  Therefore  give  me  leave  to 
say,  or  sing  at  least,  as  he  does  upon  the 
same  occasion  — 

"  Se  vedette,"  &c.   [Siw^.] 

Phil.  What,  do  you  think  I'm  to  be  fobbed 
off  with  a  song?  I  don't  question  but  you 
have  sung  the  same  to  Mrs.  Judy  too. 

Tom.  Don't  disparage  your  charms,  good 
Phillis,  with  jealousy  of  so  worthless  an 
object;  besides,  she  is  a  poor  hussy,  and  if 
you  doubt  the  sincerity  of  my  love,  you  will 
allow  me  true  to  my  interest.  You  are  a 
fortune,  Phillis. 

Phil.  What  would  the  fop  be  at  now? 
In  good  time,  indeed,  you  shall  be  setting 
up  for  a  fortune! 

Tom.  Dear  Mrs.  Phillis,  you  have  such 
a  spirit  that  we  shall  never  be  dull  in 
marriage  when  we  come  together.  But  I  tell 
you,  you  are  a  fortune,  and  you  have  an 
estate  in  my  hands. 

[He  pulls  out  a  purse,  she  eyes  it. 

Phil.  What  pretence  have  I  to  what  is  in 
your  hands,  Mr.  Tom? 

Tom.  As  thus:  there  are  hours,  you  know, 
when  a  lady  is  neither  pleased  or  displeased; 
neither  sick  or  well;  when  she  lolls  or 
loiters;  when  she's  without  desires  —  from 
having  more  of  everything  than  she  knows 
what  to  do  with. 


Phil. 
Tom. 


Well,   what    then? 

When    she    has    not    life    enough    to 


keep  her  bright  eyes  quite  open,  to  look  at 
her  own  dear  image  in  the  glass. 

Phil.  Explain  thyself,  and  don't  be  so 
fend  of  thy  own  prating. 

Tom.     There      are      also     prosperous      and 


235 


ACT  I,  Sc.  II. 


THE  CONSCIOUS  LOVERS 


good-natured  moments:  as  when  a  knot  or 
a  patch  is  happily  fixed;  when  the  complex- 
ion particularly  flourishes. 

i'liil.  Well,  what  then?  I  have  not  pa- 
tience! 

Tom.  Why,  then — or  on  the  like  occa- 
sions— we  servants  who  have  skill  to  know 
how  to  time  business,  see  when  such  a  pretty 
folded  thing  as  this  [Shows  a  tetter.]  may  be 
presented,  laid,  or  dropped,  as  best  suits 
the  present  humor.  And,  madam,  because 
it  is  a  long  wearisome  journey  to  run 
through  all  the  several  stages  of  a  lady's 
temper,  my  master,  who  is  the  most  reason- 
able man  in  the  world,  presents  you  this  to 
bear  your  charges  on  the  road.  • 

[Gives  her  the  purse. 
Now  you  think  me  a  corrupt  hussy. 
O  fie,  I  only  think  you'll  take  the 


Phil. 
Tom. 
letter. 

Phil. 


Nay,    I    know    you    do,    but    I    know 


my    own    innocence;    I    take    it    for    my    mis- 
tress's   sake. 

Tom.     I  know  it,  my  pretty  one,  I  know  it. 

Phil.  Yes,  I  say  I  do  it,  because  I  would 
not  have  my  mistress  deluded  by  one  who 
gives  no  proof  of  his  passion;  but  I'll  talk 
more  of  this  as  you  see  me  on  my  way 
home.  No,  Tom,  I  assure  thee,  I  take  this 
trash  of  thy  master's,  not  for  the  value  of 
the  thing,  but  as  it  convinces  me  he  has  a 
true  respect  for  my  mistress.  I  remember 
a  verse  to  the  purpose — 

They   may   be   false    who   languish    and    com- 
plain, 

But  they  who  part  with  money  never  feign. 

[Exeunt. 

SCENE  II 

BEVIL,  JUN.'S  Lodgings. 
BEVIL,  JUN.,   reading. 

Bev.  Jun.  These  moral  writers  practise 
virtue  after  death.  This  charming  vision  of 
Mirza!  Such  an  author  consulted  in  a 
morning  sets  the  spirit  for  tl  .  vicissitudes 
of  the  day  better  than  the  glass  does  a 
man's  person.  But  what  a  day  have  I  to 
go  through!  to  put  on  an  easy  look  with 
an  aching  heart !  If  this  lady  my  father 
urges  me  to  marry  should  not  refuse  me,  my 
dilemma  is  insupportable.  But  why  should 
I  fear  it?  Is  not  she  in  equal  distress 
with  me?  Has  not  the  letter  I  have  sent 
her  this  morning  confessed  my  inclination 
to  another?  Nay,  have  I  not  moral  assur- 
ances of  her  engagements,  too,  to  my  friend 
Myrtle?  It's  impossible  but  she  must  give 
in  to  it;  for,  sure,  to  be  denied  is  a  favor 
any  man  may  pretend  to.  It  must  be  so — 
Well,  then,  with  the  assurance  of  being  re- 
jected, I  think  I  may  confidently  say  to  my 
father,  I  am  ready  to  marry  her.  Then  let 


me  resolve   upon,  what   I   am    not   very   good 
at,   though  it  is   an  honest  dissimulation. 

Enter    TOM. 

Sir   John   Bevil,    sir,   is   in   the   next 
Dunce!    Why  did  not  you  bring 

Tom.  I  told  him,  sir,  you  were  in  your 
closet. 

Bev.  Jun.  I  thought  you  had  known,  sir, 
it  was  my  duty  to  see  my  father  anywhere. 

[Going  himself  to  the  door. 
Tom.     The    devil's   in    my    master!    he    has 


Tom. 
room. 

Bev.  Jun. 
him    in? 


always  more  wit  than  I  have. 


[Aside. 


BEVIL,  JUN.,  introducing  SIR  JOHN. 

Bev.  Jun.  Sir,  you  are  the  most  gallant, 
the  most  complaisant  of  all  parents.  Sure, 
'tis  not  a  compliment  to  say  these  lodgings 
are  yours.  Why  would  you  not  walk  in, 


I    was   loth    to   interrupt    you 


sir? 

Sir  J.    Bev. 
unseasonably  on  your  wedding-day. 

Bev.    Jun.     One    to    whom    I    am    beholden 
for  my  birthday  might  have  used  less  cere- 


Bev.     Well,     son,     I     have     intelli- 


mony. 

Sir    J. 

gence  you  have  writ  to  your  mistress  this 
morning.  It  would  please  my  curiosity  to 
know  the  contents  of  a  wedding-day  letter; 
for  courtship  must  then  be  over. 

Bev.  Jun.  I  assure  you,  sir,  there  was 
no  insolence  in  it  upon  the  prospect  of  such 
a  vast  fortune's  being  added  to  our  family; 
but  much  acknowledgment  of  the  lady's 
greater  desert. 

Sir  7.  Bev.  But,  dear  Jack,  are  you  in 
earnest  in  all  this?  And  will  you  really 
marry  her? 

Bev.  Jun.  Did  I  ever  disobey  any  com- 
mand of  yours,  sir?  nay,  any  inclination 
that  I  saw  you  bent  upon? 

Sir  J.  Bev.  Why,  I  can't  say  you  have, 
son;  but  methinks  in  this  whole  business, 
you  have  not  been  so  warm  as  I  could  have 
wished  you.  You  have  visited  her,  it's  true, 
but  you  have  not  been  particular.  Everyone 
knows  you  can  say  and  do  as  handsome 
things  as  any  man;  but  you  have  done 
nothing  but  lived  in  the  general— been  com- 
plaisant only. 

Bev.  Jun.  As  I  am  ever  prepared  to  marry 
if  you  bid  me,  so  I  am  ready  to  let  it  alone 
if  you  will  have  me. 

[HUMPHRY    enters,    unobserved. 

Sir  J.  Bev.  Look  you  there  now !  why, 
what  am  I  to  think  of  this  so  absolute  and 
so  indifferent  a  resignation? 

Bev.  Jun.  Think?  that  I  am  still  your 
son,  sir.  Sir,  you  have  been  married,  and 
I  have  not.  And  you  have,  sir,  found  the 
inconvenience  there  is  when  a  man  weds 


230 


THE  CONSCIOUS  LOVERS 


ACT  I,  Sc.  II. 


with  too  much  love  in  his  head.  I  have  been 
told,  sir,  that  at  the  time  you  married,  you 
made  a  mighty  bustle  on  the  occasion. 
There  was  challenging  and  fighting,  scaling 
walls,  locking  up  the  lady,  and  the  gallant 
under  an  arrest  for  fear  of  killing  all  his 
rivals.  Now,  sir,  I  suppose  you  having 
found  the  ill  consequences  of  these  strong 
passions  and  prejudices,  in  preference  of 
one  woman  to  another,  in  case  of  a  man's 
becoming  a  widower 

Sir  J.  Bev.     How  is  this? 

Bev.  Jun.  I  say,  sir,  experience  has  made 
you  wiser  in  your  care  of  me;  for,  sir,  since 
you  lost  my  dear  mother,  your  time  has  been 
so  heavy,  so  lonely,  and  so  tasteless,  that  you 
are  so  good  as  to  guard  me  against  the  like 
unhappiness,  by  marrying  me  prudentially 
by  way  of  bargain  and  sale.  For,  as  you 
well  judge,  a  woman  that  is  espoused  for  a 
fortune,  is  yet  a  better  bargain,  if  she  dies; 
for  then  a  man  still  enjoys  what  he  did 
marry,  the  money,  and  is  disencumbered  of 
what  he  did  not  marry,  the  woman. 

Sir  J.  Bev.  But  pray,  sir,  do  you  think 
Lucinda,  then,  a  woman  of  such  little  merit? 

Bev.  Jun.  Pardon  me,  sir,  I  don't  carry 
it  so  far  neither;  I  am  rather  afraid  I  shall 
like  her  too  well;  she  has,  for  one  of  her  for- 
tune, a  great  many  needless  and  superfluous 
good  qualities. 

Sir  J.  Bev.  I  am  afraid,  son,  there's 
something  I  don't  see  yet,  something  that's 
smothered  under  all  this  raillery. 

Bev.  Jun.  Not  in  the  least,  sir.  If  the 
lady  is  dressed  and  ready,  you  see  I  am.  I 
suppose  the  lawyers  are  ready  too. 

Humph.  This  may  grow  warm  if  I  don't 
interpose.  [Aside.}—  Sir,  Mr.  Sealand  is  at 
the  coffee-house,  and  has  sent  to  speak  with 


you. 

Sir  J.  Bev.     Oh!  that's  well! 


Then  I  war- 


rant  the   lawyers    are   ready.     Son,    you'll  be 
in   the  way,  you  say. 

Bev.  Jun.  If  you  please,  sir,  I'll  take  a 
chair,  and  go  to  Mr.  Sealand's,  where  the 
young  lady  and  I  will  wait  your  leisure. 

Sir  J.  Bev.  By  no  means.  The  old  fellow 
will  be  so  vain  if  he  sees 

Bev.  Jun.  Ay;  but  the  young  lady,  sir, 
will  think  me  so  indifferent. 

Humph.  Ay,  there  you  are  right;  press 
your  readiness  to  go  to  the  bride — he  won't 
let  you.  [Aside  to  BEV.  JUN. 

Bev.  Jun.     Are  you  sure  of   that? 

[Aside    to    HUMPH. 

Humph.     How    he    likes    being    prevented. 

[Aside. 

Sir  J.   Bev.     No,  no.     You  are  an   hour  or 


two   too   early. 


[Looking   on   his  watch. 


Bev.  Jun.  You'll  allow  me,  sir,  to  think 
it  too  late  to  visit  a  beautiful,  virtuous 
young  woman,  in  the  pride  and  bloom  of 
life,  ready  to  give  herself  to  my  arms;  and 


to    place    her    happiness    or    misery,    for    the 
future,   in   being   agreeable    or   displeasing    to 

3all    a    chair. 

Bev.  No,  no,  no,  dear  Jack;  this 
Sealand  is  a  moody  old  fellow.  There's  no 
dealing  with  some  people  but  by  managing 
with  indifference.  We  must  leave  to  him 
the  conduct  of  this  day.  It  is  the  last  of 
his  commanding  his  daughter. 

Bev.  Jun.  Sir,  he  can't  take  it  ill,  that  I 
am  impatient  to  be  hers. 

Sir  J.  Bev.  Pray  let  me  govern  in  this 
matter;  you  can't  tell  how  humor  some  old 
fellows  are.  There's  no  offering  reason  to 
some  of  'em,  especially  when  they  are  rich. — 
If  my  son  should  see  him  before  I've  brought 
old  Sealand  into  better  temper,  the  match 


would    be    impracticable. 


[Aside. 


Humph.  Pray,  sir,  let  me  beg  you  to  let 
Mr.  Bevil  go. — See  whether  he  will  or  not. 
[Aside  to  SIR  JOHN] — [Then  to  BEV.]— Pray, 
sir,  command  yourself;  since  you  see  my 
master  is  positive,  it  is  better  you  should 
not  go. 

Bev.  Jun.  My  father  commands  me,  as  to 
the  object  of  my  affections;  but  I  hope  he 
will  not,  as  to  the  warmth  and  height  of 
them. 

Sir  J.  Bev.  So!  I  must  even  leave  things 
as  I  found  them;  and  in  the  meantime,  at 
least,  keep  old  Sealand  out  of  his  sight- 
Well,  son,  I'll  go  myself  and  take  orders 
in  your  affair.  You'll  be  in  the  way,  I  sup- 
pose, if  I  send  to  you.  I'll  leave  your  old 
friend  with  you — Humphry,  don't  let  him 
stir,  d'ye  hear? — Your  servant,  your  serv- 
[Exit  SIR  JOHN. 
sad  time  on't,  sir,  be- 


ant. 

Humph.     I   have   a 


tween  you  and  my  master.  I  see  you  are 
unwilling,  and  I  know  his  violent  inclina- 
tions for  the  match. — I  must  betray  neither, 
and  yet  deceive  you  both,  for  your  common 
good.  Heaven  grant  a  good  end  of  this  mat- 
ter.— But  there  is  a  lady,  sir,  that  gives 
your  father  much  trouble  and  sorrow. — You'll 
pardon  me. 

Bev.  Jun.  Humphry,  I  know  thou  art  a 
friend  to  both,  and  in  that  confidence  I  dare 
tell  thee,  that  lady  is  a  woman  of  honor 
and  virtue.  You  may  assure  yourself  I 
never  will  marry  without  my  father's  con- 
sent. But  give  me  leave  to  say,  too,  this 
declaration  does  not  come  up  to  a  promise 
that  I  will  take  whomsoever  he  pleases. 

Humph.  Come,  sir,  I  wholly  understand 
you.  You  would  engage  my  services  to  free 
you  from  this  woman  whom  my  master  in- 
tends you,  to  make  way,  in  time,  for  the 
woman  you  have  really  a  mind  to. 

Bev.  Jun.  Honest  Humphry,  you  have  al- 
ways been  a  useful  friend  to  my  father  and 
myself;  I  beg  you  continue  your  good  offices, 
and  don't  let  us  come  to  the  necessity  of  a 
dispute;  for,  if  we  should  dispute,  I  must 


237 


ACT  I,  Sc.  II. 


THE  CONSCIOUS  LOVERS 


either  part  with  more  than  life,  or  lose  the 
best  of  fathers. 

Humph.  My  dear  master,  were  I  but 
worthy  to  know  this  secret,  that  so  near 
concerns  you,  my  life,  my  all  should  be 
engaged  to  serve  you.  This,  sir,  I  dare 
promise,  that  I  am  sure  I  will  and  can  be 
secret:  your  trust,  at  worst,  but  leaves  you 
where  you  were;  and  if  I  cannot  serve  you, 
I  will  at  once  be  plain  and  tell  you  so. 

Bev.  Jun.  That's  all  I  ask.  Thou  hast 
made  it  now  my  interest  to  trust  thee.  Be 
patient,  then,  and  hear  the  story  of  my 
heart. 

Humph.     I  am  all  attention,  sir. 

Bei'.  Jun.  You  may  remember,  Humphry, 
that  in  my  last  travels  my  father  grew  un- 
easy at  my  making  so  long  a  stay  at  Toulon. 

Humph.  I  remember  it;  he  was  appre- 
hensive some  woman  had  laid  hold  of  you. 

Bcr.  Jun.  His  fears  were  just;  for  there 
I  first  saw  this  lady.  She  is  of  English 
birth:  her  father's  name  was  Danvers — a 
younger  brother  of  an  ancient  family,  and 
originally  an  eminent  merchant  of  Bristol, 
who,  upon  repeated  misfortunes,  was  re- 
duced to  go  privately  to  the  Indies.  In  this 
retreat,  Providence  again  grew  favorable 
to  his  industry,  and,  in  six  years'  time,  re- 
stored him  to  his  former  fortunes.  On  this 
he  sent  directions  over  that  his  wife  and 
little  family  should  follow  him  to  the  Indies. 
His  wife,  impatient  to  obey  such  welcome  or- 
ders, would  not  wait  the  leisure  of  a  con- 
voy, but  took  the  first  occasion  of  a  single 
ship,  and,  with  her  husband's  sister  only, 
and  this  daughter,  then  scarce  seven  years 
old,  undertook  the  fatal  voyage — for  here, 
poor  creature,  she  lost  her  liberty  and  life. 
She  and  her  family,  with  all  they  had,  were, 
unfortunately,  taken  by  a  privateer  from 
Toulon.  Being  thus  made  a  prisoner,  though 
as  such  not  ill-treated,  yet  the  fright,  the 
shock,  and  cruel  disappointment,  seized  with 
such  violence  upon  her  unhealthy  frame,  she 
sickened,  pined,  and  died  at  sea. 

Humph.  Poor  soul !  O  the  helpless  in- 
fant! 

Bev.  Her  sister  yet  survived,  and  had 
the  care  of  her.  The  captain,  too,  proved  to 
have  humanity,  and  became  a  father  to  her; 
for  having  himself  married  an  English 
woman,  a-  d  being  childless,  he  brought 
home  into  Toulon  this  her  little  country- 
woman, presenting  her,  with  all  her  dead 
mother's  movables  of  value,  to  his  wife,  to 
be  educated  as  his  own  adopted  daughter. 

Humph.  Fortune  here  seemed  again  to 
smile  on  her. 

Bei'.  Only  to  make  her  frowns  more 
terrible;  for,  in  his  height  of  fortune,  this 
captain,  too,  her  benefactor,  unfortunately 
was  killed  at  sea;  and  dying  intestate,  his 
estate  fell  wholly  to  an  advocate,  his 


brother,  who,  coming  soon  to  take  posses- 
sion, there  found  (among  his  other  riches) 
this  blooming  virgin  at  his  mercy. 

Humph.  He  durst  not,  sure,  abuse  his 
power  1 

Bev.  No  wonder  if  his  pampered  blood 
was  fired  at  the  sight  of  her— in  short,  he 
loved;  but  when  all  arts  and  gentle  means 
had  failed  to  move,  he  offered,  too,  his 
menaces  in  vain,  denouncing  vengeance  on 
her  cruelty,  demanding  her  to  account  for 
all  her  maintenance  from  her  childhood; 
seized  on  her  little  fortune  as  his  own 
inheritance,  and  was  dragging  her  by  vio- 
lence to  prison,  when  Providence  at  the  in- 
stant interposed,  and  sent  me,  by  miracle, 
to  relieve  her. 

Humph.  'Twas  Providence,  indeed.  But 
pray,  sir,  after  all  this  trouble,  how  came 
this  lady  at  last  to  England? 

Bev.  The  disappointed  advocate,  finding 
she  had  so  unexpected  a  support,  on  cooler 
thoughts,  descended  to  a  composition,  which 
I,  without  her  knowledge,  secretly  dis- 
charged. 

Humph.  That  generous  concealment  made 
the  obligation  double. 

Bev.  Having  thus  obtained  her  liberty, 
I  prevailed,  not  without  some  difficulty,  to 
see  her  safe  to  England;  where,  no  sooner 
arrived,  but  my  father,  jealous  of  my  being 
imprudently  engaged,  immediately  proposed 
this  other  fatal  match  that  hangs  upon  my 
quiet. 

Humph.  I  find,  sir,  you  are  irrecoverably 
fixed  upon  this  lady. 

Bev.  As  my  vital  life  dwells  in  my 
heart — and  yet  you  see  what  I  do  to  please 
my  father:  walk  in  this  pageantry  of  dress, 
this  splendid  covering  of  sorrow — But,  Hum- 
phry, you  have  your  lesson. 

Humph.  Now,  sir,  I  have  but  one  ma- 
terial question 

Bev.     Ask  it  freely. 

Humph.  Is  it,  then,  your  own  passion 
for  this  secret  lady,  or  hers  for  you,  that 
gives  you  this  aversion  to  the  match  your 
father  has  proposed  you? 

Bev.  I  shall  appear,  Humphry,  more  ro- 
mantic in  my  answer  than  in  all  the  rest  of 
my  story;  for  though  I  dote  on  her  to  death, 
and  have  no  little  reason  to  believe  she  has 
the  same  thoughts  for  me,  yet  in  all  my 
acquaintance  and  utmost  privacies  with  her, 
I  never  once  directly  told  her  that  I  loved. 

Humph.     How  was  it  possible  to  avoid  it? 

Bev.  My  tender  obligations  to  my  father 
have  laid  so  inviolable  a  restraint  upon  my 
conduct  that,  till  I  have  his  consent  to 
speak,  I  am  determined,  on  that  subject,  to 
be  dumb  for  ever. 

Humph.  Well,  sir,  to  your  praise  be  it 
spoken,  you  are  certainly  the  most  un- 
fashionable lover  in  Great  Britain. 


238 


THE  CONSCIOUS  LOVERS 


ACT  II,  Sc.  1. 


Enter  TOM. 

Tom.  Sir,  Mr.  Myrtle's  at  the  next  door, 
and,  if  you  are  at  leisure,  will  be  glad  to 
wait  on  you. 

Bev.  Whenever  he  pleases  -  hold,  Tom! 
did  you  receive  no  answer  to  my  letter? 

Tom.  Sir,  I  was  desired  to  call  again; 
for  I  was  told  her  mother  would  not  let  her 
be  out  of  her  sight;  but  about  an  hour 
hence,  Mrs.  Lettice  said,  I  should  certainly 


have    one. 

Bev.     Very    well. 
Humph.     Sir,    I    will 


[Exit   TOM. 
take    another    oppor- 


tunity. In  the  meantime,  I  only  think  it 
proper  to  tell  you  that,  from  a  secret  I  know, 
you  may  appear  to  your  father  as  forward 
as  you  please,  to  marry  Lucinda  without  the 
least  hazard  of  its  coming  to  a  conclusion  — 
Sir,  your  most  obedient  servant. 

Bev.  Honest  Humphry,  continue  but  my 
friend  in  this  exigence,  and  you  shall  al- 
ways find  me  yours.  [Exit  HUMPH.]—  I  long 
to  hear  how  my  letter  has  succeeded  with 
Lucinda  —  but  I  think  it  cannot  fail;  for,  at 
worst,  were  it  possible  she  could  take  it  ill, 
her  resentment  of  my  indifference  may  as 
probably  occasion  a  delay  as  her  taking  it 
right.  Poor  Myrtle,  what  terrors  must  he 
be  in  all  this  while?  Since  he  knows  she  is 
offered  to  me,  and  refused  to  him,  there  is 
no  conversing  or  taking  any  measures  with 
him  for  his  own  service.  —  But  I  ought  lo 
bear  with  my  friend,  and  use  him  as  one  in 
adversity  — 

All  his  disquiets  by  my  own  I   prove, 
The  greatest  grief's  perplexity  in  love. 

[Exit. 

ACT    THE    SECOND 

SCENE    I 

BEVIL,   JUN.'S  Lodgings. 
Enter  BEVIL,  JUN.  and  TOM. 

Tom.     Sir,    Mr.    Myrtle. 
Bev.    Jun.     Very   well  —  do   you    step    again, 
and    wait    for   an    answer    to    my    letter. 

[Exit   TOM. 
Enter  MYRTLE. 

Bev.  Jun.  Well,  Charles,  why  so  much 
care  in  thy  countenance?  Is  there  any- 
thing in  this  world  deserves  it?  You,  who 
used  to  be  so  gay,  so  open,  so  vacant! 

Myrt.  I  think  we  have  of  late  changed 
complexions.  You,  who  used  to  be  much  the 
graver  man,  are  now  all  air  in  your  be- 
havior.— But  the  cause  of  my  concern  may, 
for  aught  I  know,  be  the  same  object  that 


gives   you   all    this    satisfaction.     In   a    word, 
I   am   told    that    you   are    this   very   day— and 


your    dress    confirms    me 
ried    to   Lucinda. 


it — to    be    mar- 


Bev. Jun.  You  are  not  misinformed. — 
Nay,  put  not  on  the  terrors  of  a  rival  till 
you  hear  me  out.  I  shall  disoblige  the  best 
of  fathers  if  I  don't  seem  ready  to  marry 
Lucinda;  and  you  know  I  have  ever  told 
you  you  might  make  use  of  my  secret  reso- 
lution never  to  marry  her  for  your  own 
service  as  you  please;  but  I  am  now  driven 
to  the  extremity  of  immediately  refusing  or 
complying  unless  you  help  me  to  escape  the 
match. 

Myrt.  Escape?  Sir,  neither  her  merit  or 
her  fortune  are  below  your  acceptance — 
Escaping  do  you  call  it? 

/)<•:•.  Jun.  Dear  sir,  do  you  wish  I  should 
desire  the  match? 

Myrt.  No;  but  such  is  my  humorous  and 
sickly  state  of  mind  since  it  has  been  able 
to  relish  nothing  but  Lucinda,  that  though 
I  must  owe  my  happiness  to  your  aversion 
to  this  marriage,  I  can't  bear  to  hear  her 
spoken  of  with  levity  or  unconcern. 

Bev.  Jun.  Pardon  me,  sir,  I  shall  trans- 
gress that  way  no  more.  She  has  under- 
standing, beauty,  shape,  complexion,  wit 

Myrt.  Nay,  dear  Bevil,  don't  speak  of 
her  as  if  you  loved  her  neither. 

Bev.  Jun.  Why,  then,  to  give  you  ease  at 
once,  though  I  allow  Lucinda  to  have  good 
sense,  wit,  beauty,  and  virtue,  I  know  an- 
other in  whom  these  qualities  appear  to  me 
more  amiable  than  in  her. 

Myrt.  There  you  spoke  like  a  reasonable 
and  good-natured  friend.  When  you  ac- 
knowledge her  merit,  and  own  your  pre- 
possession for  another,  at  once  you  gratify 
my  fondness  and  cure  my  jealousy. 

Bev.  Jun.  But  all  this  while  you  take  no 
notice,  you  have  no  apprehension,  of  an- 
other man  that  has  twice  the  fortune  of 
either  of  us. 

Myrt.  Cimberton!  hang  him,  a  formal, 
philosophical,  pedantic  coxcomb;  for  the  sot, 
with  all  these  crude  notions  of  divers  things, 
under  the  direction  of  great  vanity  and  very 
little  judgment,  shows  his  strongest  bias  is 
avarice;  which  is  so  predominant  in  him 
that  he  will  examine  the  limbs  of  his  mis- 
tress with  the  caution  of  a  jockey,  and  pays 
no  more  compliment  to  her  personal  charms 
than  if  she  were  a  mere  breeding  animal. 

Bev.  Jun.  Are  you  sure  that  is  not  af- 
fected? I  have  known  some  women  sooner 
set  on  fire  by  that  sort  of  negligence  than 
by 

Myrt.  No,  no;  hang  him,  the  rogue  has 
no  art;  it  is  pure,  simple  insolence  and 


stupidity. 

Bev.  Jun. 


Yet,  with  all   this,   I  don't   take 


him   for  a  fool. 

Myrt.  I  own  the  man  is  not  a  natural; 
he  has  a  very  quick  sense,  though  very  slow 
understanding.  He  says,  indeed,  many 


things   that  want  only   the  circumstances  of 
239 


ACT  II,  Sc.  II. 


THE  CONSCIOUS  LOVERS 


time  and  place  to  be  very  just  and  agree- 
able. 

Bev.  Jun.  Well,  you  may  be  sure  of  me 
if  you  can  disappoint  him;  but  my  intelli- 
gence says  the  mother  has  actually  sent  for 
the  conveyancer  to  draw  articles  for  his 
marriage  with  Lucinda,  though  those  for 
mine  with  her  are,  by  her  father's  order, 
ready  for  signing;  but  it  seems  she  has  not 
thought  fit  to  consult  either  him  or  his 
daughter  in  the  matter. 

Myrt.  Pshaw!  a  poor  troublesome  woman. 
Neither  Lucinda  nor  her  father  will  ever  be 
brought  to  comply  with  it.  Besides,  I  am 
sure  Cimberton  can  make  no  settlement 
upon  her  without  the  concurrence  of  his 
great  uncle,  Sir  Geoffry,  in  the  west. 

/•>'.•:•.  Jun.  Well,  sir,  and  I  can  tell  you 
that's  the  very  point  that  is  now  laid  before 
her  counsel,  to  know  whether  a  firm  settle- 
ment can  be  made  without  this  uncle's 
actual  joining  in  it.  Now,  pray  consider, 
sir,  when  my  affair  with  Lucinda  comes,  as 
it  soon  must,  to  an  open  rupture,  how  are 
you  sure  that  Cimberton's  fortune  may  not 


then  tempt  her  father,  too,  to  hear  his 
proposals  ? 

Myrt.  There  you  are  right,  indeed;  that 
must  be  provided  against.  Do  you  know 
who  are  her  counsel  ? 

Bev.  Jun.  Yes,  for  your  service  I  have 
found  out  that,  too.  They  are  Serjeant 
Bramble  and  Old  Target — by  the  way,  they 
are  neither  of  them  known  in  the  family. 
Now,  I  was  thinking  why  you  might  not  put 
a  couple  of  false  counsel  upon  her  to  delay 
and  confound  matters  a  little;  besides,  it 
may  probably  let  you  into  the  bottom  of 
her  whole  design  against  you. 

Myrt.     As    how,    pray? 

Bev.  Jun.  Why,  can't  you  slip  on  a 
black  wig  and  a  gown,  and  be  Old  Bramble 
yourself? 

Myrt.  Ha!  I  don't  dislike  it.— But  what 
shall  I  do  for  a  brother  in  the  case? 

Bev.  Jun.  What  think  you  of  my  fellow, 
Tom?  The  rogue's  intelligent,  and  is  a  good 
mimic.  All  his  part  will  be  but  to  stutter 
heartily,  for  that's  old  Target's  case.  Nay, 
it  would  be  an  immoral  thing  to  mock  him 
were  it  not  that  his  impertinence  is  the 
occasion  of  its  breaking  out  to  that  degree. 
The  conduct  of  the  scene  will  chiefly  lie 
upon  you. 

Myrt.  I  like  it  of  all  things.  If  you'll 
send  Tom  to  my  chambers,  I  will  give  him 
full  instructions.  This  will  certainly  give 
me  occasion  to  raise  difficulties,  to  puzzle 
or  confound  her  project  for  a  while  at  least. 

Bev.  Jun.  I'll  warrant  you  success. — So 
far  we  are  right,  then.  And  now,  Charles, 
your  apprehension  of  my  marrying  her  is 
all  you  have  to  get  over. 

Myrt.     Dear  Bevil,  though  I  know  you  are 


my  friend,  yet  when  I  abstract  myself  from 
my  own  interest  in  the  thing,  I  know  no 
objection  she  can  make  to  you,  or  you  to 
her,  and  therefore  hope 

Bev.  Jun.  Dear  Myrtle,  I  am  as  much 
obliged  to  you  for  the  cause  of  your  sus- 
picion, as  I  am  offended  at  the  effect;  but, 
be  assured,  I  am  taking  measures  for  your 
certain  security,  and  that  all  things  with 
regard  to  me  will  end  in  your  entire  satis- 
faction. 

Myrt.  Well,  I'll  promise  you  to  be  as 
easy  and  as  confident  as  I  can,  though  I 
cannot  but  remember  that  I  have  more  than 
life  at  stake  on  your  fidelity.  [Going. 

Bev.  Jun.  Then  depend  upon  it,  you  have 
no  chance  against  you. 

Myrt.     Nay,    no     ceremony,    you    know    I 


must  be  going. 


[Exit  MYRT. 


Bev.  Jun.  Well,  this  is  another  instance 
of  the  perplexities  which  arise,  too,  in  faith- 
ful friendship.  We  must  often  in  this  life 
go  on  in  our  good  offices,  even  under  the 
displeasure  of  those  to  whom  we  do  them, 
in  compassion  to  their  weaknesses  and  mis- 
takes.—But  all  this  while  poor  Indiana  is 
tortured  with  the  doubt  of  me.  She  has 
no  support  or  comfort  but  in  my  fidelity,  yet 
sees  me  daily  pressed  to  marriage  with 
another.  How  painful,  in  such  a  crisis,  must 
be  every  hour  she  thinks  on  me!  I'll  let 
her  see  at  least  my  conduct  to  her  is  not 
changed.  I'll  take  this  opportunity  to  visit 
her;  for  though  the  religious  vow  I  have 
made  to  my  father  restrains  me  from  ever 
marrying  without  his  approbation,  yet  that 
confines  me  not  from  seeing  a  virtuous 
woman  that  is  the  pure  delight  of  my  eyes 
and  the  guiltless  joy  of  my  heart.  But  the 
best  condition  of  human  life  is  but  a  gentler 
misery — 

To  hope  for  perfect  happiness  is   vain, 
And  love  has  ever  its  allays  of  pain. 

[Exit. 
SCENE    II 

INDIANA'S  Lodgings. 
Enter  ISABELLA  and  INDIANA. 

Isab.  Yes,  I  say  'tis  artifice,  dear  child. 
I  say  to  thee  again  and  again  'tis  all  skill 
and  management. 

Jin!.  Will  you  persuade  me  there  can  be 
an  ill  design  in  supporting  me  in  the  con- 
dition of  a  woman  of  quality?  attended, 
dressed,  and  lodged  like  one;  in  my  appear- 
ance abroad  and  my  furniture  at  home,  every 
way  in  the  most  sumptuous  manner,  and  he 
that  does  it  has  an  artifice,  a  design  in  it? 

Isab.     Yes,    yes. 

In/I.  And  all  this  without  so  much  as 
explaining  to  me  that  all  about  me  comes 
from  him ! 

Isab.     Ay,    ay,    the    more    for    that.      That 


240 


THE  CONSCIOUS  LOVERS 


ACT  II,  Sc.  II. 


keeps   the  title  to  all  you  have   the  more  in 


him!     He    scorns    the 


If   he   is   an 


of     dressing-plate     which      will     be 
home      to-morrow."        Why,      dear 


him. 

Ind.     The 
thought 

Isab.     Then    he — he — he 

Ind.  Well,  be  not  so  eager, 
ill  man,  let  us  look  into  his  stratagems. 
Here  is  another  of  them.  [Showing  a  letter.] 
Here's  two  hundred  and  fifty  pounds  in 
bank  notes,  with  these  words:  "  To  pay  for 
the  set 
brought 

aunt,  now  here's  another  piece  of  skill  for 
you,  which  I  own  I  cannot  comprehend;  and 
it  is  with  a  bleeding  heart  I  hear  you  say 
anything  to  the  disadvantage  of  Mr.  Bevil. 
When  he  is  present  I  look  upon  him  as  one 
to  whom  I  owe  my  life  and  the  support  of 
it;  then,  again,  as  the  man  who  loves  me 
with  sincerity  and  honor.  When  his  eyes 
are  cast  another  way,  and  I  dare  survey 
him,  my  heart  is  painfully  divided  between 
shame  and  love.  Oh!  could  I  tell  you 

I  sub.  Ah!  you  need  not;  I  imagine  all 
this  for  you. 

Ind.  This  is  my  state  of  mind  in  his 
presence;  and  when  he  is  absent,  you  are 
ever  dinning  my  ears  with  notions  of  the 
arts  of  men;  that  his  hidden  bounty,  his 
respectful  conduct,  his  careful  provision  for 
me,  after  his  preserving  me  from  utmost 
misery,  are  certain  signs  he  means  nothing 
but  to  make  I  know  not  what  of  me. 

Isab.  Oh!  You  have  a  sweet  opinion  of 
him,  truly. 

Ind.  I  have,  when  I  am  with  him,  ten 
thousand  things,  besides  my  sex's  natural 
decency  and  shame,  to  suppress  my  heart, 
that  yearns  to  thank,  to  praise,  to  say  it 
loves  him.  I  say,  thus  it  is  with  me  while 
I  see  him;  and  in  his  absence  I  am  enter- 
tained with  nothing  but  your  endeavors 
to  tear  this  amiable  image  from  my  heart; 
and  in  its  stead,  to  place  a  base  dissembler, 
an  artful  invader  of  my  happiness,  my  in- 
nocence, my  honor. 

Isab.  Ah,  poor  soul!  has  not  his  plot 
taken?  don't  you  die  for  him?  has  not  the 
way  he  has  taken,  been  the  most  proper 
with  you?  Oh!  oh!  He  has  sense,  and 
has  judged  the  thing  right. 

Ind.  Go  on  then,  since  nothing  can  an- 
swer you;  say  what  you  will  of  him. 
Heigh!  ho! 

Isnl>.  Heigh!  ho!  indeed.  It  is  better  to 
say  so,  as  you  are  now,  than  as  many  others 
are.  There  are,  among  the  destroyers  of 
women,  the  gentle,  the  generous,  the  mild, 
the  affable,  the  humble,  who  all,  soon  after 
their  success  in  their  designs,  turn  to  the 
contrary  of  those  characters.  I  will  own  to 
you,  Mr.  Bevil  carries  his  hypocrisy  the  best 
of  any  man  living,  but  still  he  is  a  man, 
and  therefore  a  hypocrite.  They  have 


usurped  an  exemption  from  shame  for  any 
baseness,  any  cruelty  towards  us.  They  em- 
brace without  love;  they  make  vows  without 
conscience  of  obligation;  they  are  partners, 
nay,  seducers  to  the  crime,  wherein  they 
pretend  to  be  less  guilty. 

Ind.  That's  truly  observed.  [Aside.] — 
But  what's  all  this  to  Bevil? 

Isab.  This  it  is  to  Bevil  and  all  mankind. 
Trust  not  those  who  will  think  the  worse  of 
you  for  your  confidence  in  them;  serpents 
who  lie  in  wait  for  doves.  Won't  you  be  on 
your  guard  against  the  e  who  would  betray 
you?  Won't  you  doubt  those  who  would 
contemn  you  for  believing  'em?  Take  it 
from  me,  fair  and  natural  dealing  is  to  in- 
vite injuries;  'tis  bleating  to  escape  wolves 
who  would  davour  you!  Such  is  the  world — 
[Aside.]  and  such  (since  the  behavior  of  one 
man  to  myself)  have  I  believed  'all  the  rest 
of  the  sex. 

Ind.  1  will  not  doubt  the  truth  of  Bevil, 
I  will  not  doubt  it.  He  has  not  spoke  it 
by  an  organ  that  is  given  to  lying.  His 
eyes  are  ,  11  that  have  ever  told  me  that 
he  was  mine.  I  know  his  virtue,  I  know 
his  filial  t  ety,  and  ought  to  trust  his  man- 
agement with  a  father  to  whom  he  has  un- 
common obligations.  What  have  I  to  be 
concerned  for?  my  lesson  is  very  short.  If 
he  takes  me  for  ever,  my  purpose  of  life  is 
only  to  please  him.  If  he  leaves  me  (which 
Heaven  avert)  I  know  he'll  do  it  nobly,  and 
I  shall  have  nothing  to  do  but  to  learn  to  die, 
after  worse  than  death  has  happened  to 
me. 

Isab.  Ay,  do,  persist  in  your  credulity! 
flatter  yourself  that  a  man  of  his  figure  and 
fortune  will  make  himself  the  jest  of  the 
town,  and  marry  a  handsome  beggar  for 
love. 

Ind.  The  town !  I  must  tell  you,  madam, 
the  fools  that  laugh  at  Mr.  Bevil  will  but 
make  themselves  more  ridiculous;  his  ac- 
tions are  the  result  of  thinking,  and  he  has 
sense  enough  to  make  even  virtue  fashion- 
able. 

/S'il>.  O'  my  conscience  he  has  turned  her 
head. — Come,  come,  if  he  were  the  honest 
fool  you  take  him  for,  why  has  he  kept  you 
here  these  three  weeks,  without  sending  you 
to  Bristol  in  search  of  your  father,  your 
family,  and  your  relations? 

Ind.  I  am  convinced  he  still  designs  it, 
and  that  nothing  keeps  him  here,  but  the 
necessity  of  not  coming  to  a  breach  with 
his  father  in  regard  to  the  match  he  has 
proposed  him.  Beside,  has  he  not  writ  to 
Bristol?  and  has  not  he  advice  that  my 
father  has  not  been  heard  of  there  almost 
these  twenty  years? 

Ixab.  All  sham,  mere  evasion;  he  is 
afraid,  if  he  should  carry  you  thither,  your 
honest  relations  may  take  you  out  of  his 


241 


ACT  II,  Sc.  II. 


THE  CONSCIOUS  LOVERS 


hands,  and  so  blow  up  all  his  wicked  hopss 
at  once. 

InJ.  Wicked  hopes!  did  I  ever  give  him 
any  such? 

Isab.  Has  he  ever  given  you  any  honest 
ones?  Can  you  say,  in  your  conscience,  he 
has  ever  once  offered  to  marry  you? 

!>;.:.  No!  but  by  his  behavior  I  am  con- 
vinced he  will  offer  it,  the  moment  'tis  in 
his  power,  or  consistent  with  his  honor,  to 
make  such  a  promise  good  to  me. 

Isab.     His    honor ! 

Ind.  I  will  rely  upon  it;  therefore  de- 
sire you  will  not  make  my  life  uneasy,  by 
these  ungrateful  jealousies  of  one,  to  whom 
I  am,  and  wish  to  be,  obliged.  For  from 
his  integrity  alone,  I  have  resolved  to  hope 
for  happiness. 

Isab.  Nay,  I  have  done  my  duty;  if  you 
won't  see,  at  your  peril  be  it! 

Ind.  Let  it  be— This  is  his  hour  of  visit- 
ing me. 

Isab.  Oh!  to  be  sure,  keep  up  your  form; 
don't  see  him  in  a  bed-chamber — [Apart.]. 
This  is  pure  prudence,  when  she  is  liable, 
wherever  he  meets  her,  to  be  conveyed 
where'er  he  pleases. 

Ind.  All  the  rest  of  my  life  is  but  waiting 
till  he  comes.  I  live  only  when  I'm  with 
him.  [Exit. 

Isab.  Well,  go  thy  ways,  thou  wilful 
innocent! — I  once  had  almost  as  much  love 
for  a  man,  who  poorly  left  me  to  marry  an 
estate;  and  I  am  now,  against  my  will,  what 
they  call  an  old  maid— but  I  will  not  let  the 
peevishness  of  that  condition  grow  upon  me, 
only  keep  up  the  suspicion  of  it,  to  prevent 
this  creature's  being  any  other  than  a  vir- 
gin, except  upon  proper  terms.  [Exit. 

Re-enter   INDIANA,   speaking   to  a  Servant. 

Ind.  Desire  Mr.  Bevil  to  walk  in — De- 
sign! impossible!  A  base  designing  mind 
could  never  think  of  what  he  hourly  puts  in 
practice.  And  yet,  since  the  late  rumor  of 
his  marriage,  he  seems  more  reserved  than 
formerly — he  sends  in  too,  before  he  sees  me, 
to  know  if  I  am  at  leisure — such  new  respect 
may  cover  coldness  in  the  heart;  it  cer- 
tainly makes  me  thoughtful — I'll  know  the 
worst  at  once;  I'll  lay  such  fair  occasions 
in  his  way,  that  it  shall  be  impossible  to 
avoid  an  explanation,  for  these  doubts  are 
insupportable ! — But  see,  he  comes,  and 
clears  them  all. 

Enter  BEVIL. 

Bev.  Madam,  your  most  obedient — I  am 
afraid  I  broke  in  upon  your  rest  last  night; 
'twas  very  late  before  we  parted,  but  'twas 
your  own  fault.  I  never  saw  you  in  such 
agreeable  humor. 

Ind.     I  am    extremely    glad   we   were   both 


pleased;  for  I  thought  I  never  saw  you  bet- 
ter company. 

Bev.  Me,  madam!  you  rally;  I  said  very 
little. 

Ind.  But  I  am  afraid  you  heard  me  say 
a  great  deal;  and,  when  a  woman  is  in  the 
talking  vein,  the  most  agreeable  thing  a  man 
can  do,  you  know,  is  to  have  patience  to 
hear  her. 

Bev.  Then  it's  pity,  madam,  you  should 
ever  be  silent,  that  we  might  be  always 
agreeable  to  one  another. 

Ind.  If  I  had  your  talent  or  power,  to 
make  my  actions  speak  for  me,  I  might  in- 
deed be  silent,  and  yet  pretend  to  something 
more  than  the  agreeable. 

Bev.  If  I  might  be  vain  of  anything  in 
my  power,  madam,  'tis  that  my  understand- 
ing, from  all  your  sex,  has  marked  you  out 
as  the  most  deserving  object  of  my  esteem. 

Intl.  Should  I  think  I  deserve  this,  'twere 
enough  to  make  my  vanity  forfeit  the  very 
esteem  you  offer  me. 

Bev.     How    so,    madam  ? 

Ind.  Because  esteem  is  the  result  of 
reason,  and  to  deserve  it  from  good  sense, 
the  height  of  human  glory.  Nay,  I  had 
rather  a  man  of  honor  should  pay  me  that, 
than  all  the  homage  of  a  sincere  and  humble 
love. 

Bev.  Jim.  You  certainly  distinguish  right, 
madam;  love  often  kindles  from  external 
merit  only. 

Ind.  But  esteem  rises  from  a  higher 
source,  the  merit  of  the  soul. 

Bev.  Jun.  True— and  great  souls  only  can 
deserve  it.  [Bowing  respectfully. 

Ind.  Now  I  think  they  are  greater  still, 
that  can  so  charitably  part  with  it. 

Bev.  Jun.  Now,  madam,  you  make  me 
vain,  since  the  utmost  pride  and  pleasure 
of  my  life  is,  that  I  esteem  you  as  I  ought. 

Ind.  [Aside.]  As  he  ought!  still  more  per- 
plexing! he  neither  saves  nor  kills  my  hope. 

Bev.  Jun.  But,  madam,  we  grow  grave, 
methinks.  Let's  find  some  other  subject — 
Pray  how  did  you  like  the  opera  last  night? 

Ind.  First  give  me  leave  to  thank  you 
for  my  tickets. 

Bev.  Jun.  Oh !  your  servant,  madam.  But 
pray  tell  me,  you  now,  who  are  never  par- 
tial to  the  fashion,  I  fancy  must  be  the 
properest  judge  of  a  mighty  dispute  among 
the  ladies,  that  is,  whether  Crispo  or  Griselda 
is  the  more  agreeable  entertainment. 

Ind.  With  submission  now,  I  cannot  be  a 
proper  judge  of  this  question. 

Bev.     How    so,    madam? 

Ind.  Because  I  find  I  have  a  partiality 
for  one  of  them. 

Bev.    Jun.     Pray    which    is    that? 

Ind.  I  do  not  know;  there's  something  in 
that  rural  cottage  of  Griselda,  her  forlorn 
condition,  her  poverty,  her  solitude,  her 


242 


THE  CONSCIOUS  LOVERS 


ACT  II,  Sc.  II. 


resignation,  her  innocent  slumbers,  and  that 
lulling  dolce  sogno  that's  sung  over  her;  it 
had  an  effect  upon  me  that — in  short  I  never 
was  so  well  deceived,  at  any  of  them. 


Bev.   Jun.     Oh! 
for    the    dispute. 


Now   then,    I    can   account 
Griselda,    it    seems,    is    the 


distress  of  an  injur— 1  innocent  woman, 
Crispo,  that  only  of  a  man  in  the  same  con- 
dition; therefore  the  men  are  mostly  con- 
cerned for  Crispo,  and,  by  a  natural  indul- 
gence, both  sexes  for  Griselda. 

Ind.  So  that  judgment,  you  think,  ought 
to  be  for  one,  though  fancy  and  complaisance 
have  got  ground  for  the  other.  Well!  I 
believe  you  will  never  give  me  leave  to 
dispute  with  you  on  any  subject;  for  I  own, 
Crispo  has  its  charms  for  me  too.  Though 
in  the  main,  all  the  pleasure  the  best  opera 
gives  us  is  but  mere  sensation.  Me- 
thinks  it's  pity  the  mind  can't  have  a 
little  more  share  in  the  entertainment. 
The  music's  certainly  fine,  but,  in  my 
thoughts,  there's  none  of  your  composers 
come  up  to  old  Shakespeare  and  Otway.  . 

Bcr.  How,  madam !  why  if  a  woman  of 
to  say  this  in  the  drawing- 


your 
room- 


Enter  a  Servant. 


Serv.  Sir,  here's  Signor  Carbonelli  says 
he  waits  your  commands  in  the  next  room. 

Bev.  Apropos!  you  were  saying  yester- 
day, madam,  you  had  a  mind  to  hear  him. 
Will  you  give  him  leave  to  entertain  you 
now? 

Ind.  By  all  means;  desire  the  gentleman 
to  walk  in.  [Exit  Servant. 

Bev.  I  fancy  you  will  find  something  in 
this  hand  that  is  uncommon. 

Ind.  You  are  always  finding  ways,  Mr. 
Bevil,  to  make  life  seem  less  tedious  to  me. 

Enter  Music  Master. 

When    the    gentleman   pleases. 

[After  a  Sonata  is  played,  BEVIL  waits  on 
the  Master  to  the  door,  etc. 

Bev.  You  smile,  madam,  to  see  me  so 
complaisant  to  one  whom  I  pay  for  his  visit. 
Now,  I  own,  I  think  it  is  not  enough  barely 
to  pay  those  whose  talents  are  superior  to 
our  own  (I  mean  such  talents  as  would  be- 
come our  condition,  if  we  had  them).  Me- 
thinks  we  ought  to  do  something  more  than 
barely  gratify  them  for  what  they  do  at 
our  command,  only  because  their  fortune 
is  below  us. 

Ind.  You  say  I  smile.  I  assure  you  it 
was  a  smile  of  approbation;  for,  indeed,  I 
cannot  but  think  it  the  distinguishing  part 
of  a  gentleman  to  make  his  superiority  of 
fortune  as  easy  to  his  inferiors  as  he  can. — 
Now  once  more  to  try  him.  [Aside.]— I  was 
saying  just  now,  I  believed  you  would 
never  let  me  dispute  with  you,  and  I  dare 


say  it  will  always  be  so.  However,  I  must 
have  your  opinion  upon  a  subject  which 
created  a  debate  between  my  aunt  and  me, 
just  before  you  came  hither;  she  would 
needs  have  it  that  no  man  ever  does  any 
extraordinary  kindness  or  service  for  a 
woman,  but  for  his  own  sake. 

Bev.  Well,  madam!  Indeed  I  can't  but 
be  of  her  mind. 

Ind.  What,  though  he  should  maintain 
and  support  her,  without  demanding  any- 
thing of  her,  on  her  part? 

Bev.  Why,  madam,  is  making  an  ex- 
pense in  the  service  of  a  valuable  woman 
(for  such  I  must  suppose  her),  though  she 
should  never  do  him  any  favor,  nay, 
though  she  should  never  know  who  did  her 
such  service,  such  a  mighty  heroic  busi- 
ness? 

Ind.  Certainly!  I  should  think  he  must 
be  a  man  of  an  uncommon  mould. 

Bev.  Dear  madam,  why  so?  'tis  but,  at 
best,  a  better  taste  in  expense.  To  bestow 
upon  one,  whom  he  may  think  one  of  the 
ornaments  of  the  whole  creation,  to  be  con- 
scious, that  from  his  superfluity,  an  inno- 
cent, a  virtuous  spirit  is  supported  above 
the  temptations  and  sorrows  of  life!  That 
he  sees  satisfaction,  health,  and  gladness 
in  her  countenance,  while  he  enjoys  the 
happiness  of  seeing  her  (as  that  I  will 
suppose  too,  or  he  must  be  too  abstracted, 
too  insensible),  I  say,  if  he  is  allowed  to 
delight  in  that  prospect;  alas,  what  mighty 
matter  is  there  in  all  this  ? 

Ind.  No  mighty  matter  in  so  disinter- 
ested a  friendship ! 

Bev.  Disinterested!  I  can't  think  I  im 
so;  your  hero,  madam,  is  no  more  than 
what  every  gentleman  ought  to  be,  and  I 
believe  very  many  are.  He  is  only  one 
who  takes  more  delight  in  reflections  than 
in  sensations.  He  is  more  pleased  with 
thinking  than  eating;  that's  the  utmost 
you  can  say  of  him.  Why,  madam,  a  greater 
expense  than  all  this,  men  lay  out  upon  an 
unnecessary  stable  of  horses. 


Ind. 
Bev. 


Can  you  be  sincere  in  what  you  say  ? 
You    may    depend     upon    it,    if    you 


know  any  such  man,  he  does  not  love  dogs 
inordinately. 

Ind.     No,    that    he    does    not. 

/-.'(•,-.     Nor    cards,     nor    dice. 

Ind.     No. 

/•'.•.-•.     Nor  bottle  companions. 

Ind.     No. 

Bev.     Nor   loose    women. 

///./.     No,    I'm    sure   he    does   not. 

Bev.  Take  my  word  then,  if  your  admired 
hero  is  not  liable  to  any  of  these  kind  of 
demands,  there's  no  such  pre-eminence  in 
this  as  you  imagine.  Nay,  this  way  of 
expense  you  speak  of  is  what  exalts  and 
raises  him  that  has  a  taste  for  it;  and,  at 


243 


ACT  III,  Sc.  I. 


THE  CONSCIOUS  LOVERS 


the  same  time,  his  delight  is  incapable  of 
satiety,  disgust,  or  penitence. 

In.:.  But  still  I  insist  his  having  no 
private  interest  in  the  action,  makes  it 
prodigious,  almost  incredible. 

/'.•:.  Dear  madam,  I  never  knew  you 
more  mistaken.  Why,  who  can  be  more  a 
usurer  than  he  who  lays  out  his  money  in 
such  valuable  purchases  ?  If  pleasure  be 
worth  purchasing,  how  great  a  pleasure  is 
it  to  him,  who  has  a  true  taste  of  life,  to 
ease  an  aching  heart;  to  see  the  human 
countenance  lighted  up  into  smiles  of  joy, 
on  the  receipt  of  a  bit  of  ore  which  -^ 
superfluous  and  otherwise  useless  in  a 
man's  own  pocket?  What  could  a  man  do 
better  with  his  cash?  This  is  the  effect  of 
an  humane  disposition,  where  there  is  only 
a  general  tie  of  nature  and  common  neces- 
sity. What  then  must  it  be  when  we  serve 
an  object  of  merit,  of  admiration! 

Ind.  Well!  the  more  you  argue  against 
it  the  more  I  shall  admire  the  generosity. 

Bev.  Nay,  nay — Then,  madam,  'tis  time 
to  fly,  after  a  declaration  that  my  opinion 
strengthens  my  adversary's  argument.  .1 
had  best  hasten  to  my  appointment  with 
Mr.  Myrtle,  and  begone  while  we  are 
friends,  and  before  things  are  brought  to  an 
extremity.  [Exit,  carelessly. 

Enter    ISABELLA. 

Isab.  Well,  madam,  what  think  you  of 
him  now,  pray  ? 

hid.  I  protest,  I  begin  to  fear  he  is 
wholly  disinterested  in  what  he  does  for  me. 
On  my  heart,  he  has  no  other  view  but  the 
mere  pleasure  of  doing  it,  and  has  neither 
good  or  bad  designs  upon  me. 

Isab.  Ah !  dear  niece !  don't  be  in  fear  of 
both !  I'll  warrant  you,  you  will  know  time 
enough  that  he  is  not  indifferent. 

Ind.  .You  please  me  when  you  tell  me  so; 
for,  if  he  has  any  wishes  towards  me,  I 
know  he  will  not  pursue  them  but  with 
honor. 

Isab.  1  wish  I '  were  as  confident  of  one 
as  t'other.  I  saw  the  respectful  downcast 
of  his  eye,  when  you  catcht  him  gazing  at 
you  during  the  music.  He,  I  warrant,  was 
surprised,  as  if  he  had  been  taken  stealing 


your    watch, 
look! 


Oh!    the    undissembled    guilty 


Ind.  But  did  you  observe  any  such  thing, 
really?  I  thought  he  looked  most  charm- 
ingly graceful !  How  engaging  is  modesty 
in  a  man,  when  one  knows  there  is  a  great 
mind  within.  So  tender  a  confusion!  and 
yet,  in  other  respects,  so  much  himself,  so 
collected,  so  dauntless,  so  determined ! 

Isab.  Ah!  niece!  there  is  a  sort  of  bash- 
fulness  which  is  the  best  engine  to  carry 
on  a  shameless  purpose.  Some  men's 
modesty  serves  their  wickedness,  as  hypoc- 


risy gains  the  respect  due  to  piety.  But 
I  will  own  to  you,  •  there  is  one  hopeful 
symptom,  if  there  could  be  such  a  thing 
as  a  disinterested  lover.  But  it's  all  a  per- 
plexity—till— till— till 

Ind.     Till  what? 

Isab.  Till  I  know  whether  Mr.  Myrtle 
and  Mr.  Bevil  are  really  friends  or  foes.— 
And  that  I  will  be  convinced  of  before  I 
sleep;  for  you  shall  not  be  deceived. 

Ind.  I'm  sure  I  never  shall,  if  your  fears 
can  guard  me.  In  the  meantime  I'll  wrap 
myself  up  in  the  integrity  of  my  own  heart, 
nor  dare  to  doubt  of  his. 

As   conscious   honor   all   his   actions   steers, 
So  conscious   innocence  dispels  my  fears. 

[.Exeunt. 

ACT    THE    THIRD 

SCENE  I 

SEALAND'S   House. 
Enter  TOM,    meeting   PHILLIS. 

Tom.  Well,  Phillis!  What,  with  a  face  as 
if  you  had  never  seen  me  before! — What  a 
work  have  I  to  do  now?  She  has  seen 
some  new  visitant  at  their  house  whose  airs 
she  has  catcht,  and  is  resolved  to  practise 
them  upon  me.  Numberless  are  the  changes 
she'll  dance  through  before  she'll  answer 
this  plain  question:  videlicet,  have  you  de- 
livered my  master's  letter  to  your  lady  ? 
Nay,  I  know  her  too  well  to  ask  an  account 
of  it  in  an  ordinary  way;  I'll  be  in  my  airs 
as  well  as  she.  [Aside.]—  Well,  madam,  as 
unhappy  as  you  are  at  present  pleased  to 
make  me,  I  would  not,  in  the  general,  be 
any  other  than  what  I  am.  I  would  not  be 
a  bit  wiser,  a  bit  richer,  a  bit  taller,  a  bit 
shorter  than  I  am  at  this  instant. 

{.Looking    steadfastly    at    her. 

Phil.  Did  ever  anybody  doubt,  Master 
Thomas,  but  that  you  were  extremely  sat- 
isfied with  your  sweet  self? 

Tom.  I  am,  indeed.  The  thing  I  have 
least  reason  to  be  satisfied  with  is  my  for- 
tune, and  I  am  glad  of  my  poverty.  Per- 
haps if  I  were  rich  I  should  overlook  the 
finest  woman  in  the  world,  that  wants  noth- 
ing but  riches  to  be  thought  so. 

Phil.  How  prettily  was  that  said!  But 
I'll  have  a  great  deal  more  before  I'll  say 


one   word. 


I A  side. 


Tom.  I  should,  perhaps,  have  been  stu- 
pidly above  her  had  I  not  been  her  equal; 
and  by  .  ot  being  her  equal,  never  had 
opportunity  of  being  her  slave.  I  am  my 
master's  servant  for  hire — I  am  my  mis- 
tress's from  choice,  would  she  but  approve 
my  passion. 

I'hil.  I  think  it's  the  first  time  I  ever 
heard  you  s*>eak  of  it  with  any  sense  of  the 
anguish,  if  you  really  do  suffer  any. 


244 


THE  CONSCIOUS  LOVERS 


ACT  III,  Sc.  I. 


Tom.  Ah,  Phjllis!  can  you  doubt,  after 
what  you  have  seen? 

Phil.  I  know  not  what  I  have  seen,  nor 
what  I  have  heard;  but  since  I'm  at  leisure, 
you  may  tell  me  when  you  fell  in  love  with 
me;  how  you  fell  in  love  with  me;  and 
what  you  have  suffered  or  are  ready  to  suf- 
fer for  me. 

Tom.  Oh,  the  unmerciful  jade!  when  I'm 
in  haste  about  my  master's  letter.  But  I 
must  go  through  it.  [Aside.]—  Ah!  too 
well  I  remember  when,  and  how,  and  on 
what  occasion  I  was  first  surprised.  It 
was  on  the  1st  of  April,  1715,  I  came  into 
Mr.  Sealand's  service;  I  was  then  a  hobble- 
dehoy, and  you  a  pretty  little  tight  girl,  a 
favorite  handmaid  of  the  housekeeper.  At 
that  time  we  neither  of  us  knew  what  was 
in  us.  I  remember  I  was  ordered  to  get  out 
of  the  window,  one  pair  of  stairs,  to  rub 
the  sashes  clean;  the  person  employed  on 
the  inner  side  was  your  charming  self, 
whom  I  had  never  seen  before. 

Phil.  1  think  I  remember  the  silly  acci- 
dent. What  made  ye,  you  oaf,  ready  to  fall 
down  into  the  street? 

Tom.  You  know  not,  I  warrant  you— you 
could  not  guess  what  surprised  me.  You 
took  no  delight  when  you  immediately  grew 
wanton  in  your  conquest,  and  put  your  lips 
close,  and  breathed  upon  the  glass,  and 
when  my  lips  approached,  a  dirty  cloth  you 
rubbed  against  my  face,  and  hid  your  beau- 
teous form!  When  I  again  drew  near,  you 
spit,  and  rubbed,  and  smiled  at  my  un- 
doing. 

Phil.     What  silly  thoughts  you  men  have! 

Tom.  We  were  Pyramus  and  Thisbe — but 
ten  times  harder  was  my  fate.  Pyramus 
could  peep  only  through  a  wall;  I  saw  her, 
saw  my  Thisbe  in  all  her  beauty,  but  as 
much  kept  from  her  as  if  a  hundred  walls 
between — for  there  was  more:  there  was  her 
will  against  me.  Would  she  but  yet  relent! 
O  Phillis!  Phillis!  shorten  my  torment,  and 
declare  you  pity  me. 

I'hil.  I  believe  it's  very  suff enable;  the 
pain  is  not  so  exquisite  but  that  you  may 
bear  it  a  little  longer. 

Tom.  Oh !  my  charming  Phillis,  if  all 
depended  on  my  fair  one's  will,  I  could  with 
glory  suffer — but,  dearest  creature,  consider 
our  miserable  state. 

I'hil.     How !      Miserable ! 

Tom.  We  are  miserable  to  be  in  love, 
and  under  the  command  of  others  than 
those  we  love;  with  that  generous  passion 
in  the  heart,  to  be  sent  to  and  fro  on 
errands,  called,  checked,  and  rated  for  the 
meanest  trifles.  Oh,  Phillis  I  you  don't 
know  how  many  china  cups  and  glasses  my 
passion  for  you  has  made  me  break.  You 
have  broke  my  fortune  as  well  as  my 
heart. 


I'hil.  Well,  Mr.  Thomas,  I  cannot  but 
own  to  you  that  I  believe  your  master 
writes  and  you  speak  the  best  of  any  men 
in  the  world.  Never  was  woman  so  well 
pleased  with  a  letter  as  my  young  lady  was 
with  his;  and  this  is  an  answer  to  it. 

[Gives    him   a    letter. 

Tom.  This  was  well  done,  my  dearest; 
consider,  we  must  strike  out  some  pretty 
livelihood  for  ourselves  by  closing  their 
affairs.  It  will  be  nothing  for  them  to  give 
us  a  little  being  of  our  own,  some  small 
tenement,  out  of  their  large  possessions. 
Whatever  they  give  us,  it  will  be  more 
than  what  they  keep  for  themselves.  One 
acre  with  Phillis  would  be  worth  a  whole 
county  without  her. 
Phil.  O,  could  I  but  believe  you! 

Tom.  If  not  the  utterance,  believe  the 
touch  of  my  lips.  [Kisses  her. 

Phil.  There's  no  contradicting  you.  How 
closely  you  argue,  Tom! 

Tom.  And  will  closer,  in  due  time.  But 
I  must  hasten  with  this  letter,  to  hasten 
towards  the  possession  of  you.  Then, 
Phillis,  consider  how  I  must  be  revenged, 
look  to  it,  of  all  your  skittishness,  shy 
looks,  and  at  best  but  coy  compliances. 

I'll  il.  Oh,  Tom,  you  grow  wanton,  and 
sensual,  as  my  lady  calls  it;  I  must  not  en- 
dure it.  Oh!  fob!  you  are  a  man — an  odious, 
filthy,  male  creature — you  should  behave,  if 
you  had  a  right  sense  or  were  a  man  of 
sense,  like  Mr.  Cimberton,  with  distance 
and  indifference;  or,  let  me  see,  some  other 
becoming  hard  word,  with  seeming  in-in-in- 
advertency,  and  not  rush  on  one  as  if  you 
were  seizing  a  prey. — But  hush!  the  ladies 
are  coming. — Good  Tom,  don't  kiss  me  above 
once,  and  be  gone.  Lard,  we  have  been  fool- 
ing and  toying,  and  not  considered  the  main 
business  of  our  masters  and  mistresses. 

Tom.  Why,  their  business  is  to  be  fool- 
ing and  toying  as  soon  as  the  parchments 
are  ready. 

Phil.  Well  remembered,  parchments;  my 
lady,  to  my  knowledge,  is  preparing  writ- 
ings between  her  coxcomb  cousin,  Cimber- 
ton, and  my  mistress,  though  my  master 
has  an  eye  to  the  parchments  already  pre- 
pared between  your  master,  Mr.  Bevil,  and 
my  mistress;  and,  I  believe,  my  mistress 
herself  has  signed  and  sealed,  in  her  heart, 
to  Mr.  Myrtle.— Did  I  not  bid  you  kiss  me 
but  once,  and  be  gone?  But  I  know  you 
won't  be  satisfied. 

Tom.  No,  you  smooth  creature,  how 
should  I?  [Kissing  her  hand. 

Phil.  Well,  since  you  are  so  humble,  or 
so  cool,  as  to  ravish  my  hand  only,  I'll  take 
my  leave  of  you  like  a  great  lady,  and  you 
a  man  of  quality.  [They  salute  formally. 

Tom.     Pox    of    all    this    state. 

[Offers  to  kiss  her  more  closely. 


245 


ACT  III,  So.  I. 


THE  CONSCIOUS  LOVERS 


Phil.  No,  prithee,  Tom,  mind  your  busi- 
ness. We  must  follow  that  interest  which 
will  take,  but  endeavor  at  that  which  will 
be  most  for  us,  and  we  like  most.  Oh, 
here's  my  young  mistress!  [ToM  taps  her 
neck  behind,  and  kisses  his  fingers."]  Go,  ye 
liquorish  fool.  [.Exit  TOM. 

Enter  LUCINDA. 

Who    was    that    you    was    hurrying 
One    that    I    had    no    mind    to    part 


Luc. 
away? 

Phil. 
with. 

Luc. 
Phil. 


Why  did  you  turn  him  away  then? 
For  your  ladyship's  service — to 
carry  your  ladyship's  letter  to  his  master. 
I  could  hardly  get  the  rogue  away. 

Luc.  Why,  has  he  so  little  love  for  his 
master  ? 

I'hil.  No;  but  he  hath  so  much  love  for 
his  mistress. 

Luc.  But  I  thought  I  heard  him  kiss 
you.  Why  did  you  suffer  that? 

Phil.  Why,  madam,  we  vulgar  take  it 
to  be  a  sign  of  love — We  servants,  we  poor 
people,  that  have  nothing  but  our  persons 
to  bestow  or  treat  for,  are  forced  to  deal 
and  bargain  by  way  of  sample,  and  there- 
fore as  we  have  no  parchments  or  wax 
necessary  in  our  agreements,  we  squeeze 
with  our  hands  and  seal  with  our  lips,  to 
ratify  vows  and  promises. 

Luc.  But  can't  you  trust  one  another 
without  such  earnest  down? 

Phil.  We  don't  think  it  safe,  any  more 
than  you  gentry,  to  come  together  without 
deeds  executed. 

Luc.     Thou   art   a   pert   merry   hussy. 

Phil.  I  wish,  madam,  your  lover  and  you 
were  as  happy  as  Tom  and  your  servant  are. 

Luc.     You    grow    impertinent. 

Phil.  I  have  done,  madam;  and  I  won't 
ask  you  what  you  intend  to  do  with  Mr. 
Myrtle,  what  your  father  will  do  with  Mr. 
Bevil,  nor  what  you  all,  especially  my  lady, 
mean  by  admitting  Mr.  Cimberton  as  par- 
ticularly here  as  if  he  were  married  to  you 
already;  nay,  you  are  married  actually  as 
far  as  people  of  quality  are. 

Luc.     How   is   that? 

I'hil.  You  have  different  beds  in  the 
same  house. 

Luc.  Pshaw!  I  have  a  very  great  value 
for  Mr.  Bevil,  but  have  absolutely  put  an 
end  to  his  pretensions  in  the  letter  I  gave 
you  for  him.  But  my  father,  in  his  heart, 
still  has  a  mind  to  him,  were  it  not  for  this 
woman  they  talk  of;  and  I  am  apt  to 
imagine  he  is  married  to  her,  or  never  de- 
signs to  marry  at  all. 

Phil.     Then   Mr.   Myrtle 

Luc.  He  had  my  parents'  leave  to  apply 
to  me,  and  by  that  he  has  won  me  and  my 


affections;  who  is  to  have  this  body  of 
mine  without  'em,  it  seems,  is  nothing  to 
me.  My  mother  says  'tis  indecent  for  me 
to  let  my  thoughts  stray  about  the  person 
of  my  husband;  nay,  she  says  a  maid, 
rigidly  virtuous,  though  she  may  have  been 
where  her  lover  was  a  thousand  times, 
should  not  have  made  observations  enough 
to  know  him  from  another  man  when  she 
sees  him  in  a  third  place. 

I'hil.  That  is  more  than  the  severity  of 
a  nun,  for  not  to  see  when  one  may  is 
hardly  possible;  not  to  see  when  one  can't 
is  very  easy.  At  this  rate,  madam,  there 
are  a  great  many  whom  you  have  not  seen 
who 

Luc.  Mamma  says  the  first  time  you  see 
your  husband  should  be  at  that  instant  he 
is  made  so.  When  your  father,  with  the 
help  of  the  minister,  gives  you  to  him, 
then  you  are  to  see  him;  then  you  are  to 
observe  and  take  notice  of  him;  because 
then  you  are  to  obey  him. 

Phil.  But  does  not  my  lady  remember 
you  are  to  love  as  well  as  obey? 

Luc.  To  love  is  a  passion,  'tis  a  desire, 
and  we  must  have  no  desires.— Oh,  I  can- 
not endure  the  reflection!  With  what  in- 
sensibility on  my  part,  with  what  more 
than  patience  have  I  been  exposed  and 
offered  to  some  awkward  booby  or  other 
in  every  county  of  Great  Britain! 

1'liil.  Indeed,  madam,  I  wonder  I  never 
heard  you  speak  of  it  before  with  this  in- 
dignation. 

Luc.  Every  corner  of  the  land  has  pre- 
sented me  with  a  wealthy  coxcomb.  As  fast 
as  one  treaty  has  gone  off,  another  has  come 
on,  till  my  name  and  person  have  been  the 
tittle-tattle  of  the  whole  town.  What  is 
this  world  come  to?— no  shame  left— to  be 
bartered  for  like  the  beasts  of  the  field,  and 
that  in  such  an  instance  as  coming  together 
to  an  entire  familiarity  and  union  of  soul 
and  body.  Oh!  and  this  without  being  so 
much  as  well-wishers  to  each  other,  but  for 
increase  of  fortune. 

I'liil.  But,  madam,  all  these  vexations 
will  end  very  soon  in  one  for  all.  Mr. 
Cimberton  is  your  mother's  kinsman,  and 
three  hundred  years  an  older  gentleman 
than  any  lover  you  ever  had;  for  which 
reason,  with  that  of  his  prodigious  large 
estate,  she  is  resolved  on  him,  and  has 
sent  to  consult  the  lawyers  accordingly; 
nay,  has  (whether  you  know  it  or  no)  been 
in  treaty  with  Sir  Geoffry,  who,  to  join  in 
the  settlement,  has  accepted  of  a  sum  to  do 
it,  and  is  every  moment  expected  in  town 
for  that  purpose. 

Luc.     How    do    you    get    all    this    intelli- 


gence ? 
Phil. 
beyond 

246 


By  an  art  I  have,  I  thank  my  stars, 
all      the     waiting-maids     in     Great 


THE  CONSCIOUS  LOVERS 


ACT  III,  Sc.  I. 


Britain — the    art    of    listening,     madam,     for 
your   ladyship's   service. 

Luc.  I  shall  soon  know  as  much  as  you 
do;  leave  me,  leave  me,  Phillis,  begone. 
Here,  here!  I'll  turn  you  out.  My  mother 
says  I  must  not  converse  with  my  servants, 
though  I  must  converse  with  no  one  else. 
[Exit  PHIL.]— How  unhappy  are  we  who  are 
born  to  great  fortunes!  No  one  looks  at 
us  with  indifference,  or  acts  towards  us  on 
the  foot  of  plain  dealing;  yet,  by  all  I  have 
been  heretofore  offered  to  or  treated  for  I 
have  been  used  with  the  most  agreeable 
of  all  abuses— flattery.  But  now,  by  this 
phlegmatic  fool  I'm  used  as  nothing,  or  a 
mere  thing.  He,  forsooth,  is  too  wise,  too 
learned  to  have  any  regard  to  desires,  and 
I  know  not  what  the  learned  oaf  calls  senti- 
ments of  love  and  passion — Here  he  conies 
with  my  mother— It's  much  if  he  looks  at 
me,  or  if  he  does,  takes  no  more  notice  of 
me  than  of  any  other  movable  in  the  room. 

Enter  MRS.  SEALAND,  and  MR.  CIMBERTON. 

Mrs.  Seal.  How  do  I  admire  this  noble, 
this  learned  taste  of  yours,  and  the  worthy 
regard  you  have  to  our  own  ancient  and 
honorable  house  in  consulting  a  means 
to  keep  the  blood  as  pure  and  as  regularly 
descended  as  may  be. 

dm.  Why,  really,  madam,  the  young 
women  of  this  age  are  treated  with  dis- 
courses of  such  a  tendency,  and  their 
imaginations  so  bewildered  in  flesh  and 
blood,  that  a  man  of  reason  can't  talk  to 
be  understood.  They  have  no  ideas  of  hap- 
piness, but  what  are  more  gross  than  the 
gratification  of  hunger  and  thirst. 

Luc.  With  how  much  reflection  he  is  a 
coxcomb !  [Aside. 

dm.  And  in  truth,  madam,  I  have  con- 
sidered it  as  a  most  brutal  custom  that 
persons  of  the  first  character  in  the  world 
should  go  as  ordinarily,  and  with  as  little 
shame,  to  bed  as  to  dinner  with  one  another. 
They  proceed  to  the  propagation  of  the 
species  as  openly  as  to  the  preservation  of 
the  individual. 

Luc.  She  that  willingly  goes  to  bed  to 
thee  must  have  no  shame,  I'm  sure. 

[Aside. 

Mrs.  Seal.  Oh,  cousin  Cimberton!  cousin 
Cimberton!  how  abstracted,  how  refined  is 
your  sense  of  things !  But,  indeed,  it  is  too 
true  there  is  nothing  so  ordinary  as  to  say, 
in  the  best  governed  families,  my  master 
and  lady  are  gone  to  bed;  one  does  not 
know  but  it  might  have  been  said  of  one's 
self.  [Hiding  her  face  with  her  fan. 

dm.  Lycurgus,  madam,  instituted  other- 
wise; among  the  Lacedaemonians  the  whole 
female  world  was  pregnant,  but  none  but 
the  mothers  themselves  knew  by  whom; 


their  meetings  were  secret,  and  the  amorous 
congress  always  by  stealth;  and  no  such 
professed  doings  between  the  sexes  as  are 
tolerated  among  us  under  the  audacious 
word,  marriage. 

Mrs.  Seal.  Oh,  had  I  lived  in  those  days 
and  been  a  matron  of  Sparta,  one  might 
with  less  indecency  have  had  ten  children, 
according  to  that  modest  institution,  than 
one,  under  the  confusion  of  our  modern, 
barefaced  manner. 

Luc.  And  yet,  poor  woman,  she  has  gone 
through  the  whole  ceremony,  and  here  I 
stand  a  melancholy  proof  of  it.  [Aside. 

Mrs.  Seal.  We  will  talk  then  of  business. 
That  girl  walking  about  the  room  there  is 
to  be  your  wife.  She  has,  I  confess,  no 
ideas,  no  sentiments,  that  speak  her  born 
of  a  thinking  mother. 

Cimb.  I  have  observed  her;  her  lively 
look,  free  air,  and  disengaged  countenance 
speak  her  very 

Luc.     Very  what? 

Cimb.  If  you  please,  madam — to  set  her 
a  little  that  way. 

Mrs.  Seal.  Lucinda,  say  nothing  to  him, 
you  are  not  a  match  for  him;  when  you  are 
married,  you  may  speak  to  such  a  husband 
when  you're  spoken  to.  But  I  am  dispos- 
ing of  you  above  yourself  every  way. 

Cimb.  Madam,  you  cannot  but  observe 
the  inconveniences  I  expose  myself  to,  in 
hopes  that  your  ladyship  will  be  the  con- 
sort of  my  better  part.  As  for  the  young 
woman,  she  is  rather  an  impediment  than  a 
help  to  a  man  of  letters  and  speculation. 
Madam,  there  is  no  reflection,  no  philosophy, 
can  at  all  times  subdue  the  sensitive  life, 
but  the  animal  shall  sometimes  carry  away 
the  man.  Ha!  ay,  the  vermilion  of  her  lips. 

Luc.     Pray,    don't    talk   of    me   thus. 

Cimb.  The  pretty  enough— pant  of  her 
bosom. 

Luc.     Sir!    madam,    don't    you    hear    him? 

Cimb.     Her    forward    chest. 

Luc.     Intolerable ! 

Cimb.     High    health. 

Luc.     The  grave,   easy   impudence  of  him! 

Cimb.     Proud   heart. 

Luc.     Stupid    coxcomb ! 

Cimb.  I  say,  madam,  her  impatience, 
while  we  are  looking  at  her,  throws  out 
all  attractions — her  arms — her  neck — what  a 
spring  in  her  step! 

.  Luc.  Don't  you  run  me  over  thus,  you 
strange  unaccountable! 

Cimb.  What  an  elasticity  in  her  veins 
and  arteries ! 

Luc.     I  have  no  veins,  no  arteries. 

Mrs.  Seal.  Oh,  child!  hear  him,  he  talks 
finely;  he's  a  scholar,  he  knows  what  you 
have. 

Cimb.  The  speaking  invitation  of  her 
shape,  the  gathering  of  herself  up,  and  the 


247 


ACT  III,  Sc.  I. 


THE  CONSCIOUS  LOVERS 


indignation  you  see  in  the  pretty  little 
thing— Now,  I  am  considering  her,  on  this 
occasion,  but  as  one  that  is  to  be  pregnant. 

I. nc.  The  familiar,  learned,  unseasonable 
puppy!  [Aside. 

Cimb.  And  pregnant  undoubtedly  she 
will  be  yearly.  I  fear  I  shan't,  for  many 
years,  have  discretion  enough  to  give  her 
one  fallow  season. 

Luc.  Monster!  there's  no  bearing  it. 
The  hideous  sot!  there's  no  enduring  it,  to 
be  thus  surveyed  like  a  steed  at  sale. 

Cimb.  At  sale!  She's  very  illiterate— But 
she's  very  well  limbed  too;  turn  her  in;  I  see 
what  she  is.  [Exit  LUCINDA,  in  a  rage. 

Mrs.  Seal.  Go,  you  creature,  I  am 
ashamed  of  you. 

Cimb.  No  harm  done— you  know,  madam, 
the  better  sort  of  people,  as  I  observed  to 
you,  treat  by  their  lawyers  of  weddings 
[Adjusting  himself  at  the  glass.] — and  the 
woman  in  the  bargain,  like  the  mansion 
house  in  the  sale  of  the  estate,  is  thrown 
in,  and  what  that  is,  whether  good  or 
bad,  is  not  at  all  considered. 

Mrs.  Seal.  I  grant  it;  and  therefore 
make  no  demand  for  her  youth  and  beauty, 
and  every  other  accomplishment,  as  the 
common  world  think  'em,  because  she  is 
not  polite. 

Cimb.  Madam,  I  know  your  exalted 
understanding,  abstracted,  as  it  is,  from 
vulgar  prejudices,  will  not  be  offended, 
when  I  declare  to  you,  I  marry  to  have  an 
heir  to  my  estate,  and  not  to  beget  a  col- 
ony, or  a  plantation.  This  young  woman's 
beauty  and  constitution  will  demand  pro- 
vision for  a  tenth  child  at  least. 

Mrs.  Seal.  With  all  that  wit  and  learn- 
ing, how  considerate!  What  an  economist! 
[Aside.'}— Sir,  I  cannot  make  her  any  other 
than  she  is;  or  say  she  is  much  better 
than  the  other  young  women  of  this  age, 
or  fit  for  much  besides  being  a  mother;  but 
I  have  given  directions  for  the  marriage 
settlements,  and  Sir  Geoffry  Cimberton's 
counsel  is  to  meet  ours  here,  at  this  hour, 
concerning  his  joining  in  the  deed,  which, 
when  executed,  makes  you  capable  of  set- 
tling what  is  due  to  Lucinda's  fortune. 
Herself,  as  I  told  you,  I  say  nothing  of. 

Cimb.  No,  no,  no,  indeed,  madam,  it  is 
not  usual;  and  I  must  depend  upon  my  own 
reflection  and  philosophy  not  to  overstock 
my  family. 

Mrs.  Seal.  I  cannot  help  her,  cousin 
Cimberton;  but  she  is,  for  aught  I  see,  as 
well  as  the  daughter  of  anybody  else. 

Cimb.     That  is  very  true,  madam. 

Enter  a  Servant,  who  whispers  MRS.   SEALAND. 

Mrs.  Seal.  The  lawyers  are  come,  and 
now  we  are  to  hear  what  they  have  re- 
solved as  to  the  point  whether  it's  neces- 


sary that  Sir  Geoffry  should  join  in  the 
settlement,  as  being  what  they  call  in  the 
remainder.  But,  good  cousin,  you  must 
have  patience  with  'em.  These  lawyers,  I 
am  told,  are  of  a  different  kind;  one  is  what 
they  call  a  chamber  counted,  the  other  a 
pleader.  The  conveyancer  is  slow,  from  an 
imperfection  in  his  speech,  and  therefore 
shunned  the  bar,  but  extremely  passionate 
and  impatient  of  contradiction.  The  other 
is  as  warm  as  he;  but  has  a  tongue  so 
voluble,  and  a  head  so  conceited,  he  will 
suffer  nobody  to  speak  but  himself. 

Cimb.  You  mean  old  Serjeant  Target  and 
Counsellor  Bramble?  I  have  heard  of  'em. 

Mrs.  Seal.  The  same.  Show  in  the  gen- 
tlemen. [Exit  Servant. 

Re-enter     Servant,     introducing     MYRTLE    and 
TOM    disguised    as    BRAMBLE    and    TARGET. 

Mrs.  Seal.  Gentlemen,  this  is  the  party 
concerned,  Mr.  Cimberton;  and  I  hope  you 
have  considered  of  the  matter. 

Tar.  Yes,  madam,  we  have  agreed  that 

it  must  be  by  indent dent dent 

dent 

Bram.  Yes,  madam,  Mr.  Serjeant  and  my- 
self have  agreed,  as  he  is  pleased  to  inform 
you,  that  it  must  be  an  indenture  tripartite, 
and  tripartite  let  it  be,  for  Sir  Geoffry  must 
needs  be  a  party;  old  Cimberton,  in  the  year 
1619,  says,  in  that  ancient  roll  in  Mr.  Ser- 
jeant's hands,  as  recourse  thereto  being 
had,  will  more  at  large  appear 

Tar.  Yes,  and  by  the  deeds  in  your 
hands,  it  appears  that 

Bram.  Mr.  Serjeant,  I  beg  of  you  to  make 
no  inferences  upon  what  is  in  our  custody; 
but  speak  to  the  titles  in  your  own  deeds. 
I  shall  not  show  that  deed  till  my  client 
is  in  town. 

Cimb.     You  know  best  your  own  methods. 

Mrs.  Seal.  The  single  question  is,  whether 
the  entail  is  such  that  my  cousin,  Sir 
Geoffry,  is  necessary  in  this  affair? 

Bram.  Yes,  as  to  the  lordship  of  Tre- 
triplet,  but  not  as  to  the  messuage  of 
Grimgribber. 

Tar.  I  say  that  Gr— gr—  that  Gr— gr— 
Grimgribber,  Grimgribber  is  in  us;  that  is 
to  say  the  remainder  thereof,  as  well  as  that 
of  Tr—tr— Triplet. 

Bram.  You  go  upon  the  deed  of  Sir 
Ralph,  made  in  the  middle  of  the  last  cen- 
tury, precedent  to  that  in  which  old  Cimber- 
ton made  over  the  remainder,  and  made  it 
pass  to  the  heirs  general,  by  which  your 
client  comes  in;  and  I  question  whether  the 
remainder  even  to  Tretriplet  is  in  him — 
But  we  are  willing  to  waive  that,  and  give 
him  a  valuable  consideration.  But  we  shall 
not  purchase  what  is  in  us  for  ever,  as 
Grimgribber  is,  at  the  rate,  as  we  guard 
against  the  contingent  of  Mr.  Cimberton 


248 


THE  CONSCIOUS  LOVERS 


ACT  IV,  Sc.  I. 


are    not    ripe    for    that    yet, 


having  no  son — Then  we  know  Sir  Geoffry 
is  the  first  of  the  collateral  male  line  in  this 
family — yet 

Tar.     Sir,  Gr gr ber  is 

Bram.  I  apprehend  you  very  well,  and 
your  argument  might  be  of  force,  and  we 
would  be  inclined  to  hear  that  in  all  its 
parts— But,  sir,  I  see  very  plainly  what  you 
are  going  into.  I  tell  you,  it  is  as  probable 
a  contingent  that  Sir  Geoffry  may  die  be- 
fore Mr.  Cimberton,  as  that  he  may  outlive 
him. 

Tar.     Sir,    we 
but  I  must  say 

Bram.  Sir,  I  allow  you  the  whole  extent 
of  that  argument;  but  that  will  go  no 
farther  than  as  to  the  claimants  under  old 
Cimberton.  I  am  of  opinion  that,  according 
to  the  instruction  of  Sir  Ralph,  he  could  not 
dock  the  entail,  and  then  create  a  new 
estate  for  the  heirs  general. 

Tar.  Sir,  I  have  not  patience  to  be  told 
that,  when  Gr gr ber 

Bram.  I  will  allow  it  you,  Mr.  Serjeant; 
but  there  must  be  the  word  heirs  for  ever,  to 
make  such  an  estate  as  you  pretend. 

Cimb.  I  must  be  impartial,  though  you 
are  counsel  for  my  side  of  the  question. 
Were  it  not  that  you  are  so  good  as  to  allow 
him  what  he  has  not  said,  I  should  think  it 
very  hard  you  should  answer  him  without 
hearing  him— But,  gentlemen,  I  believe  you 
have  both  considered  this  matter,  and  are 
firm  in  your  different  opinions.  'Twere  bet- 
ter, therefore,  you  proceeded  according  to 
the  particular  sense  of  each  of  you,  and 
gave  your  thoughts  distinctly  in  writing. 
And  do  you  see,  sirs,  pray  let  me  have  a 
copy  of  what  you  say  in  English. 

Bram.  Why,  what  is  all  we  have  been 
saying?  In  English!  Oh!  but  I  forgot  my- 
self, you're  a  wit.  But,  however,  to  please 
you,  sir,  you  shall  have  it,  in  as  plain  terms 
as  the  law  will  admit  of. 

Cimb.  But  I  would  have  it,  sir,  without 
delay. 

Bram.  That,  sir,  the  law  will  not  admit 
of.  The  Courts  are  sitting  at  Westminster, 
and  I  am  this  moment  obliged  to  be  at  every 
one  of  them,  and  'twould  be  wrong  if  I 
should  not  be  in  the  hall  to  attend  one  of  'em 
at  least;  the  rest  would  take  it  ill  else. 
Therefore,  I  must  leave  what  I  have  said  to 
Mr.  Serjeant's  consideration,  and  I  will  digest 
his  arguments  on  my  part,  and  you  shall 
hear  from  me  again,  sir.  [Exit  BRAMBLE. 

'/'.;)•.     Agreed,    agreed. 

Cimb.  Mr.  Bramble  is  very  quick;  he 
parted  a  little  abruptly. 

Tar.     He   could   not  bear  my   argument;    I 

pinched  him   to   the   quick   about   that   Gr 

gr ber. 

Mrs.  Seal.  I  saw  that,  for  he  durst  not 
so  much  as  hear  you.  I  shall  send  to  you, 


Mr.   Serjeant,   as   soon   as   Sir  Geoffry   comes 
to  town,  and  then  I  hope  all  may  be  adjusted. 

Tar.  I  shall  be  at  my  chambers,  at  my 
usual  hours.  [Exit. 

Cimb.  Madam,  if  you  please,  I'll  now  at- 
tend you  to  the  tea  table,  where  I  shall  hear 
from  your  ladyship  reason  and  good  sense, 
after  all  this  law  and  gibberish. 

Mrs.  Seal.  'Tis  a  wonderful  thing,  sir,  that 
men  of  professions  do  not  study  to  talk  the 
substance  of  what  they  have  to  say  in  the 
language  of  the  rest  of  the  world.  Sure, 
they'd  find  their  account  in  it. 

dm.  They  might,  perhaps,  madam,  with 
people  of  your  good  sense;  but  with  the 
generality  'twould  never  do.  The  vulgar 
would  have  no  respect  for  truth  and  knowl- 
edge, if  they  were  exposed  to  naked  view. 
Truth  is  too  simple,  of  all  art  bereaved: 
Since  the  world  will—  why  let  it  be  deceived. 

[Exeunt. 


ACT    THE    FOURTH 

SCENE  I 
BEVIL,  JUN.'S  Lodgings. 

BEVIL,  JUN.,  with  a  letter  in  his  hand,  followed 
by  TOM. 

Tom.  Upon  my  life,  sir,  I  know  nothing 
of  the  matter.  I  never  opened  my  lips  to 
Mr.  Myrtle  about  anything  of  your  honor's 
letter  to  Madam  Lucinda. 

Bev.  What's  the  fool  in  such  a  fright  for? 
I  don't  suppose  you  did.  What  I  would  know 
is,  whether  Mr.  Myrtle  showed  any  suspicion, 
or  asked  you  any  questions,  to  lead  you  to 
say  casually  that  you  had  carried  any  such 
letter  for  me  this  morning. 

Tom.  Why,  sir,  if  he  did  ask  me  any 
questions,  how  could  I  help  it? 

Bev.  I  don't  say  you  could,  oaf  !  I  am 
not  questioning  you,  but  him.  What  did  he 
say  to  you  ? 

Tom.  Why,  sir,  when  I  came  to  his  cham- 
bers, to  be  dressed  for  the  lawyer's  part 
your  honor  was  pleased  to  put  me  upon, 
he  asked  me  if  I  had  been  at  Mr.  Sealand's 
this  morning?  So  I  told  him,  sir,  I  often 
went  thither—  because,  sir,  if  I  had  not  said 
that  he  might  have  thought  there  was  some- 
thing more  in  my  going  now  than  at  an- 
other time. 

Bev.  Very  well  !  —  The  fellow's  caution,  I 
find,  has  given  him  this  jealousy.  [Aside.'}  — 
Did  he  ask  you  no  other  questions? 

Tom.  Yes,  sir;  now  I  remember,  as  we 
came  away  in  the  hackney  coach  from  Mr. 
Sealand's,  Tom,  says  he,  as  I  came  in  to 
your  master  this  morning,  he  bade  you  go 
for  an  answer  to  a  letter  he  had  sent.  Pray 
did  you  bring  him  any?  says  he.  Ah!  says  I, 
sir,  your  honor  is  pleased  to  joke  with 


249 


ACT  IV,  Sc.  I. 


THE  CONSCIOUS  LOVERS 


me;  you  have  a  mind  to  know  whether  I  can 
keep   a    secret    or    no? 

/uv.  And  so,  by  showing  him  you  could, 
you  told  him  you  had  one? 

Tom.     Sir [Confused. 

Bev.  What  mean  actions  does  jealousy 
make  a  man  stoop  to!  How  poorly  has  he 
used  art  with  a  servant  to  make  him  betray 
his  master !— Well !  and  when  did  he  give 
you  this  letter  for  me? 

Tom.  Sir,  he  writ  it  before  he  pulled  off 
his  lawyer's  gown,  at  his  own  chambers. 

Ber.  Very  well;  and  what  did  he  say 
when  you  brought  him  my  answer  to  it? 

Tom.  He  looked  a  little  out  of  humor, 
•ir,  and  said  it  was  very  well. 

Bev.  I  knew  he  would  be  grave  upon't; 
wait  without. 

Tom.  Hum!  'gad,  I  don't  like  this;  I  am 
afraid  we  are  all  in  the  wrong  box  here. 

[Ex-it    TOM. 

Bev.  I  put  on  a  serenity  while  my  fellow 
was  present;  but  I  have  never  been  more 
thoroughly  disturbed.  This  hot  man !  to 
write  me  a  challenge,  on  supposed  artificial 
dealing,  when  I  professed  myself  his  friend ! 
I  can  live  contented  without  glory;  but  I 
cannot  suffer  shame.  What's  to  be  done  ? 
But  first  let  me  consider  Lucinda's  letter 
again.  [Reads. 

"  SIR, 

"  I  hope  it  is  consistent  with  the  laws  a 
woman  ought  to  impose  upon  herself,  to 
acknowledge  that  your  manner  of  declining 
a  treaty  of  marriage  in  our  family,  and  de- 
siring the  refusal  may  come  from  me,  has 
something  more  engaging  in  it  than  the 
courtship  of  him  who,  I  fear,  will  fall  to 
my  lot,  except  your  friend  exerts  himself 
for  our  common  safety  and  happiness.  I 
have  reasons  for  desiring  Mr.  Myrtle  may 
not  know  of  this  letter  till  hereafter,  and 
am  your  most  obliged  humble  servant, 

"  LUCINDA   SEALAND." 

Well,   but   the  postscript —  [Reads. 

"  I  won't,  upon  second  thoughts,  hide  any- 
thing from  you.  But  my  reason  for  conceal- 
ing this  is,  that  Mr.  Myrtle  has  a  jealousy 
in  his  temper  which  gives  me  some  terrors; 
but  my  esteem  for  him  inclines  me  to  hope 
that  only  an  ill  effect  which  sometimes  ac- 
companies a  tender  love,  and  what  may  be 
cured  by  a  careful  and  unblamable  conduct." 

Thus  has  this  lady  made  me  her  friend  and 
confidant,  and  put  herself,  in  a  kind,  under 
my  protection.  I  cannot  tell  him  immediately 
the  purport  of  her  letter,  except  I  could  cure 
him  of  the  violent  and  untractable  passion 
of  jealousy,  and  so  serve  him,  and  her,  by 
disobeying  her,  in  the  article  of  secrecy, 
more  than  I  should  by  complying  with  her 
directions.— But  then  this  duelling,  which 


custom  has  imposed  upon  every  man  who 
would  live  with  reputation  and  honor  in  the 
world — how  must  I  preserve  myself  from  im- 
putations there?  He'll,  forsooth,  call  it  or 
think  it  fear,  if  I  explain  without  fighting.— 
But  his  letter — I'll  read  it  again— 

"  SIR, 

"  You  have  used  me  basely  in  correspond- 
ing and  carrying  on  a  treaty  where  you 
told  me  you  were  indifferent.  I  have 
changed  my  sword  since  I  saw  you;  which 
advertisement  I  thought  proper  to  send  you 
against  the  next  meeting  between  you  and 
the  injured 

"  CHARLES  MYRTLE." 

Enter  TOM. 

Tom.  Mr.  Myrtle,  sir.  Would  your  honor 
please  to  see  him? 

Bev.  Why,  you  stupid  creature!  Let 
Mr.  Myrtle  wait  at  my  lodgings !  Show  him 
up.  [Exit  TOM.]  Well!  I  am  resolved  upon 
my  carriage  to  him.  He  is  in  love,  and  in 
every  circumstance  of  life  a  little  distrust- 
ful, which  I  must  allow  for— but  here  he  is. 

Enter    TOM,    introducing    MYRTLE. 

Sir,  I  am  extremely  obliged  to  you  for  this 
honor. — [To  TOM.]  But,  sir,  you,  with  your 
very  discerning  face,  leave  the  room.  [Exit 
TOM.]— Well,  Mr.  Myrtle,  your  commands 
with  me? 

Myrt.  The  time,  the  place,  our  long  ac- 
quaintance, and  many  other  circumstances 
which  affect  me  on  this  occasion,  oblige  me, 
without  farther  ceremony  or  conference,  to 
desire  you  would  not  only,  as  you  already 
have,  acknowledge  the  receipt  of  my  letter, 
but  also  comply  with  the  request  in  it.  I 
must  have  farther  notice  taken  of  my  mes- 
sage than  these  half  lines — "  I  have  yours," 
"  I  shall  be  at  home." 

Bev.  Sir,  I  own  I  have  received  a  letter 
from  you  in  a  very  unusual  style;  but  as  I 
design  everything  in  this  matter  shall  be  your 
own  action,  your  own  seeking,  I  shall  under- 
stand nothing  but  what  you  are  pleased  to 
confirm  face  to  face,  and  I  have  already  for- 
got the  contents  of  your  epistle. 

Myrt.  This  cool  manner  is  very  agree- 
able to  the  abuse  you  have  already  made  of 
my  simplicity  and  frankness;  and  I  see  your 
moderation  tends  to  your  own  advantage 
and  not  mine — to  your  own  safety,  not  con- 
sideration of  your  friend. 

Bev.     My    own    safety,    Mr.    Myrtle? 

Myrt.     Your  own  safety,  Mr.  Bevil. 

Bev.  Look  you,  Mr.  Myrtle,  there's  no 
disguising  that  I  understand  what  you  would 
be  at;  but,  sir,  you  know  I  have  often  dared 
to  disapprove  of  the  decisions  a  tyrant  cus- 
tom has  introduced,  to  the  breach  of  all 
laws,  both  divine  and  human. 


250 


THE  CONSCIOUS  LOVERS 


ACT  IV,  Sc.  I. 


Myrt.  Mr.  Bevil,  Mr.  Bevil,  it  would  be 
a  good  first  principle,  in  those  who  have  so 
tender  a  conscience  that  way,  to  have  as 
much  abhorrence  of  doing  injuries,  as 

Bev.     As  what? 

Myrt.     As  fear  of  answering  for  'em. 

Bev.  As  fear  of  answering  for  'em!  But 
that  apprehension  is  just  or  blamable  ac- 
cording to  the  object  of  that  fear.  I  have 
often  told  you,  in  confidence  of  heart,  I 
abhorred  the  daring  to  offend  the  Author  of 
life,  and  rushing  into  His  presence — I  say,  by 
the  very  same  act,  to  commit  the  crime 
against  Him,  and  immediately  to  urge  on  to 
His  tribunal. 

Myrt.  Mr.  Bevil,  I  must  tell  you,  this 
coolness,  this  gravity,  this  show  of  con- 
science, shall  never  cheat  me  of  my  mistress. 
You  have,  indeed,  the  best  excuse  for  life, 
the  hopes  of  possessing  Lucinda.  But  con- 
sider, sir,  I  have  as  much  reason  to  be 
weary  of  it,  if  I  am  to  lose  her;  and  my 
first  attempt  to  recover  her  shall  be  to  let 
her  see  the  dauntless  man  who  is  to  be  her 
guardian  and  protector. 

Bev.  Sir,  show  me  but  the  least  glimpse 
of  argument,  that  I  am  authorised,  by  my 
own  hand,  to  vindicate  any  lawless  insult 
of  this  nature,  and  I  will  show  thee — to 
chastise  thee  hardly  deserves  the  name  of 
courage — slight,  inconsiderate  man  ! — There 
is,  Mr.  Myrtle,  no  such  terror  in  quick 
anger;  and  you  shall,  you  know  not  why, 
be  cool,  as  you  have,  you  know  not  why, 
been  warm. 

Myrt.  Is  the  woman  one  loves  so  little 
an  occasion  of  anger?  You  perhaps,  who 
know  not  what  it  is  to  love,  who  have  your 
ready,  your  commodious,  your  foreign  trin- 
ket, for  your  loose  hours;  and  from  your 
fortune,  your  specious  outward  carriage,  and 
other  lucky  circumstances,  as  easy  a  way 
to  the  possession  of  a  woman  of  honor; 
you  know  nothing  of  what  it  is  to  be  alarmed, 
to  be  distracted  with  anxiety  and  terror  of 
losing  more  than  life.  Your  marriage,  happy 
man,  goes  on  like  common  business,  and  in 
the  interim  you  have  your  rambling  captive, 
your  Indian  princess,  for  your  soft  moments 
of  dalliance,  your  convenient,  your  ready 
Indiana. 

Bev.  You  have  touched  me  beyond  the 
patience  of  a  man;  and  I'm  excusable,  in  the 
guard  of  innocence  (or  from  the  infirmity  of 
human  nature,  which  can  bear  no  more),  to 
accept  your  invitation,  and  observe  your  let- 
ter—Sir, I'll  attend  you. 

Enter   TOM. 

Tom.     Did    you    call,    sir?     I    thought    you 
did;    I    heard   you    speak    aloud. 
Bev.     Yes;  go  call  a  coach. 
Tom.     Sir— master — Mr.      Myrtle — friends  — 


gentlemen — what  d'ye  mean?  I  am  but  a 
servant,  or 

Bev.  Call  a  coach.  [Exit  TOM.]— [A  long 
pause,  walking  sullenly  by  each  other.] — 
[Aside.}  Shall  I  (though  provoked  to  the 
uttermost)  recover  myself  at  the  entrance 
of  a  third  person,  and  that  my  servant  too, 
and  not  have  respect  enough  to  all  I  have 
ever  been  receiving  from  infancy,  the  obliga- 
tion to  the  best  of  fathers,  to  an  unhappy 
virgin  too,  whose  life  depends  on  mine? 
[Shutting  the  door.] — [To  MYRTLE.]  I  have, 
thank  Heaven,  had  time  to  recollect  myself, 
and  shall  not,  for  fear  of  what  such  a  rash 
man  as  you  think  of  me,  keep  longer  un- 
explained the  false  appearances  under  which 
your  infirmity  of  temper  makes  you  suffer; 
when  perhaps  too  much  regard  to  a  false 
point  of  honor  makes  me  prolong  that 
suffering. 

Myrt.  I  am  sure  Mr.  Bevil  cannot  doubt 
but  I  had  rather  have  satisfaction  from  his 
innocence  than  his  sword. 

Bev.  Why,  then,  would  you  ask  it  first 
that  way  ? 

Myrt.  Consider,  you  kept  your  temper 
yourself  no  longer  than  till  I  spoke  to  the 
disadvantage  of  her  you  loved. 

Bev.  True;  but  let  me  tell  you,  I  have 
saved  you  from  the  most  exquisite  distress, 
even  though  you  had  su---""ded  in  the  dis- 
pute. I  know  you  so  well,  that  I  am  sure 
to  have  found  this  letter  about  a  man  you 
had  killed  would  have  been  worse  than 
death  to  yourself— Read  it.— [Aside.]  When 
he  is  thoroughly  mortified,  and  shame  has 
got  the  better  of  jealousy,  when  he  has  seen 
himself  throughly,  he  will  deserve  to  be 
assisted  towards  obtaining  Lucinda. 

Myrt.  With  what  a  superiority  has  he 
turned  the  injury  on  me,  as  the  aggressor? 
I  begin  to  fear  I  have  been  too  far  trans- 
ported— A  treaty  in  our  family!  is  not  that 
saying  too  much?  I  shall  relapse.— But  I 
find  (on  the  postscript)  something  like 
jealousy.  With  what  face  can  I  see  my 
benefactor,  my  advocate,  whom  I  have  treated 
like  a  betrayer?  [Aside.]—  Oh !  Bevil,  with 
what  words  shall  I 

Bev.  There  needs  none;  to  convince  is 
much  more  than  to  conquer. 

Myrt.     But  can  you 

Bev.  You  have  o'erpaid  the  inquietude 
you  gave  me,  in  the  change  I  see  in  you 
towards  me.  Alas!  what  machines  are  we! 
thy  face  is  altered  to  that  of  another  man; 
to  that  of  my  companion,  my  friend. 

Myrt.  That  I  could  be  such  a  precipitant 
wretch ! 

Bev.     Pray,  no  more. 

Myrt.  Let  me  reflect  how  many  friends 
have  died,  by  the  hands  of  friends,  for  want 
of  temper;  and  you  must  give  me  leave  to 
say  again,  and  again,  how  much  I  am  be- 


251 


ACT  IV,  Sc.  II. 


holden  to  that  superior  spirit  you  have  sub- 
dued me  with.  What  had  become  of  one  of 
us,  or  perhaps  both,  had  you  been  as  weak 
as  I  was,  and  as  incapable  of  reason? 

/)'.•;•.  I  congratulate  to  us  both  the  es- 
cape from  ourselves,  and  hope  the  memory 
of  it  will  make  us  dearer  friends  than  ever. 

Myrt.     Dear    Bevil,    your    friendly    conduct 
has  convinced  me  that  there  is  nothing  manly 
but  what  is  conducted  by  reason,  and  agree- 
able   to    the    practice    of    virtue    and    justice. 
And   yet   how  many    have   been   sacrificed   to 
that   idol,   the    unreasonable   opinion   of   men! 
Nay,   they  are   so   ridiculous   in  it,   that   they 
often    use    their    swords    against    each    other 
with  dissembled  anger  and  real  fear. 
Betrayed  by  honor,  and  compelled  by  shame, 
They  hazard  being,  to  preserve  a  name: 
Nor  dare  inquire  into  the  dread  mistake, 
Till  plunged  in  sad  eternity  they  wake. 

[Exeunt. 

SCENE    II 

St.   James's  Park. 

Enter  SIR  JOHN  BEVIL  and  MR.  SEALAND. 

Sir  J.  Bev.  Give  me  leave,  however,  Mr. 
Sealand,  as  we  are  upon  a  treaty  for  uniting 
our  families,  to  mention  only  the  business 
of  an  ancient  house.  Genealogy  and  descent 
are  to  be  of  some  consideration  in  an  affair 
of  this  sort. 

Mr.  Seal.  Genealogy  and  descent!  Sir, 
there  has  been  in  our  family  a  very  large 
one.  There  was  Galfrid  the  father  of  Ed- 
ward, the  father  of  Ptolomey,  the  father  of 
Crassus,  the  father  of  Earl  Richard,  the 
father  of  Henry  the  Marquis,  the  father  of 
Duke  John 

Sir  J.  Bev. 
land  ?  all  these  great  names  in  your  family  ? 

Mr.  Seal.  These?  yes,  sir.  I  have  heard 
my  father  name  'em  all,  and  more. 

Sir  J.  Bev.  Ay,  sir?  and  did  he  say  they 
were  all  in  your  family? 

Mr.  Seal.  Yes,  sir,  he  kept  'em  all.  He 
was  the  greatest  cocker  in  England.  He  said 
Duke  John  won  him  many  battles,  and  never 
lost  one. 

Sir  J.  Bev.  Oh,  sir,  your  servant!  you  are 
laughing  at  my  laying  any  stress  upon 
descent;  but  I  must  tell  you,  sir,  I  never 
knew  anyone  but  he  that  wanted  that  ad- 
vantage turn  it  into  ridicule. 

Mr.  Seal.  And  I  never  knew  any  one  who 
had  many  better  advantages  put  that  into 
his  account. — But,  Sir  John,  value  yourself 
as  you  please  upon  your  ancient  house,  I  am 
to  talk  freely  of  everything  you  are 
pleased  to  put  into  your  bill  of  rates  on  this 
occasion;  yet,  sir,  I  have  made  no  objections 


What,  do   you  rave,   Mr.  Sea- 


to   your   son's   family. 
1  doubt. 


'Tis   his   morals    that 


Sir  /.  Bev.  Sir,  I  can't  help  saying,  that 
what  might  injure  a  citizen's  credit  may  be 
no  stain  to  a  gentleman's  honor. 

Mr.  Seal.  Sir  John,  the  honor  of  a  gen- 
tleman is  liable  to  be  tainted  by  as  small  a 
matter  as  the  credit  of  a  trader.  We  are 
talking  of  a  marriage,  and  in  such  a  case, 
the  father  of  a  young  woman  will  not  think 
it  an  addition  to  the  honor  or  credit  of  her 
lover  that  he  is  a  keeper 

Sir  J.  Bev.  Mr.  Sealand,  don't  take  upon 
you  to  spoil  my  son's  marriage  with  any 
woman  else. 

Mr.  Seal.  Sir  John,  let  him  apply  to  any 
woman  else,  and  have  as  many  mistresses  as 
he  pleases. 

Sir  J.  Bev.  My  son,  sir,  is  a  discreet  and 
sober  gentleman. 

Mr.  Seal.  Sir,  I  never  saw  a  man  that 
wenched  soberly  and  discreetly,  that  ever 
left  it  off;  the  decency  observed  in  the  prac- 
tice hides,  even  from  the  sinner,  the  iniquity 
of  it.  They  pursue  it,  not  that  their  appe- 
tites hurry  'em  away,  but,  I  warrant  you, 
because  'tis  their  opinion  they  may  do  it. 

Sir  J.  Bev.  Were  what  you  suspect  a 
truth— do  you  design  to  keep  your  daughter 
a  virgin  till  you  find  a  man  unblemished  that 
way? 

Mr.  Seal.  Sir,  as  much  a  cit  as  you  take 
me  for,  I  know  the  town  and  the  world;  and 
give  me  leave  to  say,  that  we  merchants  are 
a  species  of  gentry  that  have  grown  into 
the  world  this  last  century,  and  are  as  hon- 
orable, and  almost  as  useful,  as  you  landed 
folks,  that  have  always  thought  yourselves 
so  much  above  us;  for  your  trading,  for- 
sooth, is  extended  no  farther  than  a  load  of 
hay  or  a  fat  ox.  You  are  pleasant  people, 
indeed,  because  you  are  generally  bred  up  to 
be  lazy;  therefore,  I  warrant  you,  industry 
is  dishonorable. 

Sir  J.  Bev.  Be  not  offended,  sir;  let  us 
go  back  to  our  point. 

Mr.  Seal.  Ohl  not  at  all  offended;  but  I 
don't  love  to  leave  any  part  of  the  account 
unclosed.  Look  you,  Sir  John,  comparisons 
are  odious,  and  more  particularly  so  on  occa- 
sions of  this  kind,  when  we  are  projecting 
races  that  are  to  be  made  out  of  both  sides 
of  the  comparisons. 

Sir  J.  Bev.  But,  my  son,  sir,  is,  in  the 
eye  of  the  world,  a  gentleman  of  merit. 

Mr.  Seal.  I  own  to  you,  I  think  him  so. — 
But,  Sir  John,  I  am  a  man  exercised  and 
experienced  in  chances  and  disasters.  I  lost, 
in  my  earlier  years,  a  very  fine  wife,  and 
with  her  a  poor  little  infant.  This  makes 
me,  perhaps,  over  cautious  to  preserve  the 
second  bounty  of  providence  to  me,  and  be 
as  careful  as  I  can  of  this  child.  You'll 
pardon  me,  my  poor  girl,  sir,  is  as  valuable 
to  me  as  your  boasted  son  to  you. 

Sir    J.    Bev.     Why,    that's    one    very    good 


252 


THE  CONSCIOUS  LOVERS 


ACT  IV,  Sc.  II. 


reason,    Mr.    Sealand,    why    I    wish    my    son 


had  her. 

Mr.     Seal.     There 


is      nothing     but     this 


strange  lady  here,  this  incognita,  that  can 
be  objected  to  him.  'Here  and  there  a  man 
falls  in  love  with  an  artful  creature,  and 
gives  up  all  the  motives  of  life  to  that  one 


passion. 

Sir  J.  Bev.  A  man  of  my  son's  under- 
standing cannot  be  supposed  to  be  one  of 
them. 

Mr.  Seal.  Very  wise  men  have  been  so 
enslaved;  and,  when  a  man  marries  with  one 
of  them  upon  his  hands,  whether  moved  from 
the  demand  of  the  world  or  slighter  reasons, 
such  a  husband  soils  with  his  wife  for  a 
month  perhaps — then  good  be  w'ye,  madam, 
the  show's  over — Ah !  John  Dryden  points  out 
such  a  husband  to  a  hair,  where  he  says, — 

"  And   while   abroad   so   prodigal   the   dolt   is, 
Poor   spouse   at   home   as   ragged  as   a   colt 
is." 

Now,  in  plain  terms,  sir,  I  shall  not  care  to 
have  my  poor  girl  turned  a-grazing,  and  that 
must  be  the  case  when 

Sir  J.  Bev.  But  pray  consider,  sir,  my 
son 

Mr.  Seal.  Look  you,  sir,  I'll  make  the 
matter  short.  This  unknown  lady,  as  I  told 
you,  is  all  the  objection  I  have  to  him;  but, 
one  way  or  other,  he  is,  or  has  been,  cer- 
tainly engaged  to  her.  I  am  therefore  re- 
solved, this  very  afternoon,  to  visit  her. 
Now  from  her  behavior,  or  appearance,  I 
shall  soon  be  let  into  what  I  may  fear  or 
hope  for. 

Sir  J.  Bev.  Sir,  I  am  very  confident  there 
can  be  nothing  inquired  into  relating  to  my 
son,  that  will  not,  upon  being  understood, 
turn  to  his  advantage. 

Mr.  Seal.  I  hope  that  as  sincerely  as  you 
believe  it. — Sir  John  Bevil,  when  I  am  satis- 
fied, in  this  great  point,  if  your  son's  con- 
duct answers  the  character  you  give  him, 
I  shall  wish  your  alliance  more  than  that  of 
any  gentleman  in  Great  Britain;  and  so  your 


servant. 


[Exit. 


Sir  J.  Bev.  He  is  gone  in  a  way  but  barely 
civil;  but  his  great  wealth,  and  the  merit 
of  his  only  child,  the  heiress  of  it,  are  not 
to  be  lost  for  a  little  peevishness. 

Enter  HUMPHRY. 

Oh!  Humphry,  you  are  come  in  a  seasonable 
minute.  I  want  to  talk  to  thee,  and  to  tell 
thee  that  my  head  and  heart  are  on  the 
rack  about  my  son. 

Humph.  Sir,  you  may  trust  his  discretion; 
I  am  sure  you  may. 

Sir  J.  Be-'.  Why,  I  do  believe  I  may,  and 
yet  I'm  in  a  thousand  fears  when  I  lay  this 
vast  wealth  before  me;  when  I  consider  his 
prepossessions,  either  generous  to  a  folly, 


in  an  honorable  love,  or  abandoned,  past 
redemption,  in  a  vicious  one;  and,  from  the 
one  or  the  other,  his  insensibility  to  the 
fairest  prospect  towards  doubling  our  estate: 
a  father,  who  knows  how  useful  wealth  is, 
and  how  necessary,  even  to  those  who  de- 
spise it— I  say  a  father,  Humphry,  a  father 
cannot  bear  it. 

Humph.  Be  not  transported,  sir;  you  will 
grow  incapable  of  taking  any  resolution  in 
your  perplexity. 

Sir  J.  Bev.  Yet,  as  angry  as  I  am  with 
him,  I  would  not  have  him  surprised  in 
anything.  This  mercantile  rough  man  may  go 
grossly  into  the  examination  of  this  matter, 
and  talk  to  the  gentlewoman  so  as  to 

Humph.  No,  I  hope,  not  in  an  abrupt 
manner. 

Sir  J.  Bev.  No,  I  hope  not!  Why,  dost 
thou  know  anything  of  her,  or  of  him,  or  of 
anything  of  it,  or  all  of  it? 

Humph.  My  dear  master,  I  know  so  much 
that  I  told  him  this  very  day  you  had  reason 
to  be  secretly  out  of  humor  about  her. 

Sir  J.  Bev.  Did  you  go  so  far?  Well, 
what  said  he  to  that? 

Humph.  His  words  were,  looking  upon 
me  steadfastly:  "Humphry,"  says  he,  "that 
woman  is  a  woman  of  honor." 

Sir  J.  Bev.  How!  Do  you  think  he  is 
married  to  her,  or  designs  to  marry  her? 

Humph.  I  can  say  nothing  to  the  latter; 
but  he  says  he  can  marry  no  one  without 
your  consent  while  you  are  living. 

Sir  J.  Bev.  If  he  said  so  much,  I  know 
he  scorns  to  break  his  word  with  me. 

Humph.     I  am  sure  of  that. 

Sir  J.  Bev.  You  are  sure  of  that— well! 
that's  some  comfort.  Then  I  have  nothing 
to  do  but  to  see  the  bottom  of  this  matter 
during  this  present  ruffle — Oh,  Humphry 

Humph.     You   are   not    ill,    I    hope,    sir. 

Sir  J.  Bev.  Yes,  a  man  is  very  ill  that's 
in  a  very  ill-humor.  To  be  a  father  is  to 


be 


care   for   one   whom    you    oftener    dis- 


oblige than  please  by  that  very  care — Oh ! 
that  sons  could  know  the  duty  to  a  father 
before  they  themselves  are  fathers — But, 
perhaps,  you'll  say  now  that  I  am  one  of 
the  happiest  fathers  in  the  world;  but,  I 
assure  you,  that  of  the  very  happiest  is  not 
a  condition  to  be  envied. 

Humph.  Sir,  your  pain  arises,  not  from 
the  thing  itself,  but  your  particular  sense 
of  it.  You  are  overfond,  nay,  give  me  leave 
to  say,  you  are  unjustly  apprehensive  from 
your  fondness.  My  master  Bevil  never  dis- 
obliged you,  and  he  will,  I  know  he  will,  do 
everything  you  ought  to  expect. 

Sir  J.  Bev.  He  won't  take  all  this  moncv 
with  this  girl — For  ought  I  know,  he  will, 
forsooth,  have  so  much  moderation  as  to 
think  he  ought  not  to  force  his  liking  for 
any  consideration. 


253 


ACT  IV,  Sc.  III. 


THE  CONSCIOUS  LOVERS 


Humph.  He  is  to  marry  her,  not  you;  he 
is  to  live  with  her,  not  you,  sir. 

Sir  J.  Bev.  I  know  not  what  to  think. 
But,  I  know,  nothing  can  be  more  miserable 
than  to  be  in  this  doubt— Follow  me;  I  must 
come  to  some  resolution.  [Exeunt. 

SCENE    III 

BEVIL,  JUN.'S  Lodgings. 
Enter  TOM  and  PHILLIS. 

Tom.  Well,  madam,  if  you  must  speak 
with  Mr.  Myrtle,  you  shall;  he  is  now  with 
my  master  in  the  library. 

Phil.  But  you  must  leave  me  alone  with 
him,  for  he  can't  make  me  a  present,  nor  I 
so  handsomely  take  anything  from  him  be- 
fore you;  it  would  not  be  decent. 

Tom.  It  will  be  very  decent,  indeed,  for 
me  to  retire/  and  leave  my  mistress  with 
another  man. 

Phil.  He  is  a  gentleman,  and  will  treat 
one  properly. 

Tom.  I  believe  so;  but,  however,  I  won't 
be  far  off,  and  therefore  will  venture  to  trust 


you.      I'll    call    him    to   you. 


[Exit   TOM. 


riiil.  What  a  deal  of  pother  and  sputter 
here  is  between  my  mistress  and  Mr.  Myrtle 
from  mere  punctilio!  I  could,  any  hour  of 
the  day,  get  her  to  her  lover,  and  would  do 
it — but  she,  forsooth,  will  allow  no  plot  to 
get  him;  but,  if  he  can  come  to  her,  I  know 
she  would  be  glad  of  it.  I  must,  therefore, 
do  her  an  acceptable  violence,  and  surprise 
her  into  his  arms.  I  am  sure  I  go  by  the 
best  rule  imaginable.  If  she  were  my  maid, 
I  should  think  her  the  best  servant  in  the 
world  for  doing  so  by  me. 

Enter  MYRTLE  and  TOM. 

Oh  sir!  You  and  Mr.  Bevil  are  fine  gentle- 
men to  let  a  lady  remain  under  such  diffi- 
culties as  my  poor  mistress,  and  no  attempt 
to  set  her  at  liberty,  or  release  her  from 
the  danger  of  being  instantly  married  to 
Cimberton. 

Myrt.  Tom  has  been  telling But  what 

is  to  be  done? 

I'liil.  What  is  to  be  done — when  a  man 
can't  come  at  his  mistress!  Why,  can't  you 
fire  our  house,  or  the  next  house  to  us,  to 
make  us  run  out,  and  you  take  us? 

Myrt.     How,  Mrs.  Phillis? 

Phil.  Ay;  let  me  see  that  rogue  deny  to 
fire  a  house,  make  a  riot,  or  any  other  little 
thing,  when  there  were  no  other  way  to 
come  at  me. 

Tom.     I  am  obliged  to  you,  madam. 

Phil.  Why,  don't  we  hear  every  day  of 
people's  hanging  themselves  for  love,  and 


Myrt.  What  manly  thing  would  you  have 
me  undertake,  according  to  your  ladyship's 
notion  of  a  man? 

Phil.  Only  be  at  once  what,  one  time  or 
other,  you  may  be,  and  wish  to  be,  or  must 
be. 

Myrt.  Dear  girl,  talk  plainly  to  me,  and 
consider  I,  in  my  condition,  can't  be  in  very 
good  humor — you  say,  to  be  at  once  what  I 
must  be. 

Phil.  Ay,  ay;  I  mean  no  more  than  to 
be  an  old  man;  I  saw  you  do  it  very  well 
at  the  masquerade.  In  a  word,  old  Sir 
Geoffry  Cimberton  is  every  hour  expected  in 
town,  to  join  in  the  deeds  and  settlements 
for  marrying  Mr.  Cimberton.  He  is  half 
blind,  half  lame,  half  deaf,  half  dumb;  though, 
as  to  his  passions  and  desires,  he  is  as 
warm  and  ridiculous  as  when  in  the  heat  of 
youth. 

Tom.  Come  to  the  business,  and  don't 
keep  the  gentleman  in  suspense  for  the 
pleasure  of  being  courted,  as  you  serve  me. 

Phil.  I  saw  you  at  the  masquerade  act 
such  a  one  to  .perfection.  Go,  and  put  on 
that  very  habit,  and  come  to  our  house  as 
Sir  Geoffry.  There  is  not  one  there  but 
myself  knows  his  person;  I  was  born  in  the 
parish  where  he  is  Lord  of  the  Manor.  I 
have  seen  him  often  and  often  at  church  in 
the  country.  Do  not  hesitate,  but  come 
hither;  they  will  think  you  bring  a  certain 
security  against  Mr.  Myrtle,  and  you  bring 
Mr.  Myrtle.  Leave  the  rest  to  me;  I  leave 
this  with  you,  and  expect — They  don't,  I  told 
you,  know  you;  they  think  you  out  of  town, 
which  you  had  as  good  be  for  ever,  if  you 
lose  this  opportunity — I  must  be  gone;  I 
know  I  am  wanted  at  home. 

Myrt.     My   dear   Phillis! 
[Catches    and    kisses    her,    and    gives    her 
money. 

Phil.  O  fie!  my  kisses  are  not  my  own; 
you  have  committed  violence;  but  I'll  carry 
'em  to  the  right  owner.  [ToM  kisses  her.] — 
Come,  see  me  downstairs  [To  TOM.],  and 
leave  the  lover  to  think  of  his  last  game 
for  the  prize.  [Exeunt  TOM  and  PHILLIS. 

Myrt.  I  think  I  will  instantly  attempt 
this  wild  expedient.  The  extravagance  of  it 
will  make  me  less  suspected,  and  it  will  give 
me  opportunity  to  assert  my  own  right  to 
Lucinda,  without  whom  I  cannot  live.  But 
I  am  so  mortified  at  this  conduct  of  mine 
towards  poor  Bevil.  He  must  think  meanly 
of  me — I  know  not  how  to  reassume  my- 
self, and  be  in  spirit  enough  for  such  an 
adventure  as  this;  yet  I  must  attempt  it,  if 
it  be  only  to  be  near  Lucinda  under  her 
present  perplexities;  and  sure 


The  next  delight  to  transport,  with  the  fair, 


won't     they     venture     the     hazard     of     being 
hanged  for  love  r     Oh !  were  I  a  man 

254 


Is   to   relieve   her  in  her  hours   of  care. 


[Exit. 


THE  CONSCIOUS  LOVERS 


ACT  V,  Sc.  I. 


ACT    THE    FIFTH 

SCENE  I 
SEALAND'S  House. 

Enter  PHILLIS,  with  lights,  before  MYRTLE, 
disguised  like  old  SIR  GEOFFRY;  supported 
by  MRS.  SEALAND,  LUCINDA,  and  CIMBER- 

TON. 

Mrs.  Seal.  Now  I  have  seen  you  thus  far, 
Sir  Geoffry,  will  you  excuse  me  a  moment 
while  I  give  my  necessary  orders  for  your 
accommodation?  [Exit  MRS.  SEAL. 

Myrt.  I  have  not  seen  you,  cousin  Cim- 
berton,  since  you  were  ten  years  old;  and  as 
it  is  incumbent  on  you  to  keep  up  our  name 
and  family,  I  shall,  upon  very  reasonable 
terms,  join  with  you  in  a  settlement  to  that 
purpose.  Though  I  must  tell  you,  cousin, 
this  is  the  first  merchant  that  has  married 
into  our  house. 

Luc.  Deuce  on  'em!  am  I  a  merchant  be- 
cause my  father  is?  [Aside. 

Myrt.  But  is  he  directly  a  trader  at  this 
time  ?  «> 

C'i nib.  There's  no  hiding  the  disgrace,  sir; 
he  trades  to  all  parts  of  the  world. 

Myrt.  We  never  had  one  of  our  family 
before  who  descended  from  persons  that  did 
anything. 

Cimb.  Sir,  since  it  is  a  girl  that  they 
have,  I  am,  for  the  honor  of  my  family, 
willing  to  take  it  in  again,  and  to  sink  her 
into  our  name,  and  no  harm  done. 

Myrt.  'Tis  prudently  and  generously  re- 
solved— Is  this  the  young  thing? 

Cimb.     Yes,  sir. 

Phil.  Good  madam,  don't  be  out  of  hu- 
mor, but  let  them  run  to  the  utmost  of  their 
extravagance.— Hear  them  out.  [To  Luc. 

Myrt.  Can't  I  see  her  nearer?  My  eyes 
are  but  weak. 

Phil.  Beside,  I  am  sure  the  uncle  has 
something  worth  your  notice.  I'll  take  care 
to  get  off  the  young  one,  and  leave  you  to 
observe  what  may  be  wrought  out  of  the 
old  one  for  your  good.  [To  Luc.  Exit. 

Cimb.  Madam,  this  old  gentleman,  your 
great  uncle,  desires  to  be  introduced  to  you, 
and  to  see  you  nearer! — Approach,  sir. 

Myrt.  By  your  leave,  young  lady.  [Puts 
on  spectacles.] — Cousin  Cimberton!  She  has 
exactly  that  sort  of  neck  and  bosom  for 
which  my  sister  Gertrude  was  so  much 
admired  in  the  year  sixty-one,  before  the 
French  dresses  first  discovered  anything  in 
women  below  the  chin. 

Luc.  [Aside.}  What  a  very  odd  situation 
am  I  in!  though  I  cannot  but  be  diverted  at 
the  extravagance  of  their  humors,  equally 
unsuitable  to  their  age — Chin,  quotha— I  don't 


believe    my    passionate     lover     there     knows 
whether  I  have  one  or  not.    Ha!  ha! 

Myrt.  Madam,  I  would  not  willingly  of- 
fend, but  I  have  a  better  glass. 

[Pulls   out  a  large   one. 

Enter   PHILLIS. 

Phil.  [To  CIMBERTON.]  Sir,  my  lady  de- 
sires to  show  the  apartment  to  you  that 
she  intends  for  Sir  Geoffry. 

Cimb.  Well,  sir!  by  that  time  you  have 
sufficiently  gazed  and  sunned  yourself  in 
the  beauties  of  my  spouse  there. — I  will  wait 
on  you  again.  [Exit  CIMB.  and  PHIL. 

Myrt.  Were  it  not,  madam,  that  I  might 
be  troublesome,  there  is  something  of  im- 
portance, though  we  are  alone,  which  I 
would  say  more  safe  from  being  heard. 

Luc.  There  is  something  in  this  old  fel- 
low, methinks,  that  raises  my  curiosity. 

[Aside. 

Myrt.  To  be  free,  madam,  I  as  heartily 
contemn  this  kinsman  of  mine  as  you  do,  and 
am  sorry  to  see  so  much  beauty  and  merit 
devoted  by  your  parents  to  so  insensible  a 
possessor. 

Luc.  Surprising! — I  hope,  then,  sir,  you 
will  not  contribute  to  the  wrong  you  are  so 
generous  as  to  pity,  whatever  may  be  the 
interest  of  your  family. 

Myrt.  This  hand  of  mine  shall  never  be 
employed  to  sign  anything  against  your  good 
and  happiness. 

Luc.  I  am  sorry,  sir,  it  is  not  in  my 
power  to  make  you  proper  acknowledg- 
ments; but  there  is  a  gentleman  in  the 
world  whose  gratitude  will,  I  am  sure,  be 
worthy  of  the  favor. 

Myrt.  All  the  thanks  I  desire,  madam, 
are  in  your  power  to  give. 

Luc.     Name   them  and   command   them. 

Myrt.  Only,  madam,  that  the  first  time 
you  are  alone  with  your  lover,  you  will, 
with  open  arms,  receive  him. 

Luc.  As  willingly  as  his  heart  could  wish 
it. 

Myrt.  Thus,  then,  he  claims  your  prom- 
ise. O  Lucinda! 

Luc.     Oh!  a  cheat!  a  cheat!  a  cheat! 

Myrt.  Hush!  'tis  I,  'tis  I,  your  lover, 
Myrtle  himself,  madam. 

Luc.  O  bless  me !  what  a  rashness  and 
folly  to  surprise  me  so — But  hush — my 
mother. 

Enter  MRS.  SEALAND,  CIMBERTON,  and  PHILLIS. 

Mrs.  Seal.     How  now!  what's  the  matter? 

I. HC.  O  madam !  as  soon  as  you  left  the 
room  my  uncle  fell  into  a  sudden  fit,  and — 
and— so  I  cried  out  for  help  to  support  him 
and  conduct  him  to  his  chamber. 

Mrs.  Seal.  That  was  kindly  done!  Alas! 
sir,  how  do  you  find  yourself? 

Myrt.     Never  was   taken  in  so  odd  a  way 


255 


ACT  V,  Sc.  II. 


THE  CONSCIOUS  LOVERS 


in  my  life — pray  lead  me!  Oh!  I  was  talking 
here — (pray  carry  me) — to  my  cousin  Cim- 
berton's  young  lady. 

Mrs.  Seal.  [Aside.]  My  cousin  Cimberton's 
young  lady!  How  zealous  he  is,  even  in  his 
extremity,  for  the  match!  A  right  Cirn- 
berton. 

[CIMBERTON    and    LUCINDA    lead    him,    as 
one  in  pain. 

Cimb.  Pox!  Uncle,  you  will  pull  my  ear 
off. 

Luc.  Pray,  uncle!  you  will  squeeze  me  to 
death. 

Mrs.  Seal.  No  matter,  no  matter— he 
knows  not  what  he  does.— Come,  sir,  shall 
I  help  you  out? 

Myrt.  By  no  means!  I'll  trouble  nobody 
but  my  young  cousins  here. 

[They   lead  him   off. 

Phil.  But  pray,  madam,  does  your  lady- 
ship intend  that  Mr.  Cimberton  shall  really 
marry  my  young  mistress  at  last?  I  don't 
think  he  likes  her. 

Mrs.  Seal.  That's  not  material!  Men  of 
his  speculation  are  above  desires— but  be  it 
as  it  may.  Now  I  have  given  old  Sir  Geoffry 
the  trouble  of  coming  up  to  sign  and  seal, 
with  what  countenance  can  I  be  off? 

Phil.  As  well  as  with  twenty  others, 
madam.  It  is  the  glory  and  honor  of  a 
great  fortune  to  live  in  continual  treaties, 
and  still  to  break  off:  it  looks  great,  madam. 

Mrs.  Seal.  True,  Phillis— yet  to  return 
our  blood  again  into  the  Cimbertons  is  an 
honor  not  to  be  rejected— But  were  not  you 
saying  that  Sir  John  Bevil's  creature, 
Humphry,  has  been  with  Mr.  Sealand? 

Phil.  Yes,  madam;  I  overheard  them 
agree  that  Mr.  Sealand  should  go  himself 
and  visit  this  unknown  lady  that  Mr.  Bevil 
is  so  great  with;  and  if  he  found  nothing 
there  to  fright  him,  that  Mr.  Bevil  should 
still  marry  my  young  mistress. 

Mrs.  Seal.  How!  nay,  then,  he  shall  find 
she  is  my  daughter  as  well  as  his.  I'll  fol- 
low him  this  instant,  and  take  the  whole 
family  along  with  me.  The  disputed  power 
of  disposing  of  my  own  daughter  shall  be  at 
an  end  this  very  night.  I'll  live  no  longer 
in  anxiety  for  a  little  hussy  that  hurts  my 
appearance  wherever  I  carry  her:  and  for 
whose  sake  I  seem  to  be  at  all  regarded,  and 
that  in  the  best  of  my  days. 

Phil.  Indeed,  madam,  if  she  were  mar- 
ried, your  ladyship  might  very  well  be  taken 
for  Mr.  Sealand's  daughter. 

Mrs.  Seal.  Nay,  when  the  chit  has  not 
been  with  me,  I  have  heard  the  men  say  as 
much.  I'll  no  longer  cut  off  the  greatest 
pleasure  of  a  woman's  life  (the  shining  in 
assemblies)  by  her  forward  anticipation  of 
the  respect  that's  due  to  her  superior.  She 
shall  down  to  Cimberton-Hall— she  shall— 
she  shall. 


Phil.  I  hope,  madam,  I  shall  stay  with 
your  ladyship. 

Mrs.  Seal.  Thou  shalt,  Phillis,  and  I'll 
place  thee  then  more  about  me— But  order 
chairs  immediately;  I'll  be  gone  this  minute. 

[Exeunt. 

SCENE    II 

Charing  Cross. 

Enter  MR.   SEALAND  and  HUMPHRY. 

Mr.  Seal.  I  am  very  glad,  Mr.  Humphry, 
that  you  agree  with  me  that  it  is  for  our 
common  good  I  should  look  thoroughly  into 
this  matter. 

Humph.  I  am,  indeed,  of  that  opinion; 
for  there  is  no  artifice,  nothing  concealed,  in 
our  family,  which  ought  in  justice  to  be 
known.  I  need  not  desire  you,  sir,  to  treat 
the  lady  with  care  and  respect. 

Mr.  Seal.  Master  Humphry,  I  shall  not 
be  rude,  though  I  design  to  be  a  little 
abrupt,  and  come  into  the  matter  at  once, 
to  see  how  she  will  bear  upon  a  surprise. 

Humph.  That's  the  door,  sir;  I  wish  you 
success.— [While  HUMPHRY  speaks,  SEALAND 
consults  his  table  book.]— I  am  less  concerned 
what  happens  there,  because  I  hear  Mr. 
Myrtle  is  well  lodged  as  old  Sir  Geoffry;  so 
I  am  willing  to  let  this  gentleman  employ 
himself  here,  to  give  them  time  at  home; 
for  I  am  sure  'tis  necessary  for  the  quiet  of 
our  family  Lucinda  were  disposed  of  out 
of  it,  since  Mr.  Bevil's  inclination  is  so 
much  otherwise  engaged.  [Exit. 

Mr.  Seal.  I  think  this  is  the  door. 
[Knocks.]  I'll  carry  this  matter  with  an  air 
of  authority,  to  inquire,  though  I  make  an 
errand,  to  begin  discourse.  [Knocks  again, 
and  enter  a  foot-boy.]  So,  young  man!  is 
your  lady  within? 

Boy.  Alack,  sir!  I  am  but  a  country  boy 
—I  dant  know  whether  she  is  or  noa;  but 
an  you'll  stay  a  bit,  I'll  goa  and  ask  the 
gentlewoman  that's  with  her. 

Mr.  Seal.  Why,  sirrah,  though  you  are  a 
country  boy,  you  can  see,  can't  you?  You 
know  whether  she  is  at  home,  when  you 
see  her,  don't  you? 

Boy.  Nay,  nay,  I'm  not  such  a  country 
lad  neither,  master,  to  think  she's  at  home 
because  I  see  her.  I  have  been  in  town  but 
a  month,  and  I  lost  one  place  already  for 
believing  my  own  eyes. 

Mr.  Seal.  Why,  sirrah!  have  you  learnt 
to  lie  already? 

Boy.  Ah,  master!  things  that  are  lies  in 
the  country  are  not  lies  at  London.  I  begin 
to  know  my  business  a  little  better  than 
so — But  an  you  please  to  walk  in,  I'll  call 
a  gentlewoman  to  you  that  can  tell  you  for 
certain— she  can  make  bold  to  ask  my  lady 
herself. 


256 


THE  CONSCIOUS  LOVERS 


ACT  V,  Sc.  III. 


Mr.  Seal.  Oh!  then,  she  is  within,  I  find, 
though  you  dare  not  say  so. 

Boy.  Nay,  nay !  that's  neither  here  nor 
there:  what's  matter  whether  she  is  within 
or  no,  if  she  has  not  a  mind  to  see  anybody  ? 

Mr.  Seal.  I  can't  tell,  sirrah,  whether  you 
are  arch  or  simple;  but,  however,  get  me 
a  direct  answer,  and  here's  a  shilling  for 
you. 

Boy.  Will  you  please  to  walk  in;  I'll  see 
what  I  can  do  for  you. 

Mr.  Seal.  I  see  you  will  be  fit  for  your 
business  in  time,  child;  but  I  expect  to  meet 
with  nothing  but  extraordinaries  in  such  a 
house. 

Boy.  Such  a  house!  Sir,  you  han't  seen 
it  yet.  Pray  walk  in. 

Mr.    Seal.     Sir,    I'll    wait    upon   you. 

[Exeunt. 

SCENE   III 
INDIANA'S  House. 
Enter  ISABELLA. 

Isab.  What  anxiety  do  I  feel  for  this  poor 
creature!  What  will  be  the  end  of  her? 
Such  a  languishing  unreserved  passion  for 
a  man  that  at  last  must  certainly  leave  or 
ruin  her!  and  perhaps  both!  Then  the  aggra- 
vation of  the  distress  is,  that  she  does  not 
believe  he  will— not  but,  I  must  own,  if  they 
are  both  what  they  would  seem,  they  are 
made  for  one  another,  as  much  as  Adam  and 
Eve  were,  for  there  is  no  other  of  their 
kind  but  themselves. 

Enter  Boy. 

So,    Daniel!   what   news   with    you? 

Boy.  Madam,  there's  a  gentleman  below 
would  speak  with  my  lady. 

I. sub.  Sirrah!  don't  you  know  Mr.  Bevil 
yet? 

Boy.  Madam,  'tis  not  the  gentleman  who 
comes  every  day,  and  asks  for  you,  and 
won't  go  in  till  he  knows  whether  you  are 
with  her  or  no. 

Isab.  Ha !  that's  a  particular  I  did  not  know 
before.  Well!  be  it  who  it  will,  let  him  come 
up  to  me. 

[Exit    Boy;    and    re-enters   with    MR.    SEA- 
LAND;  ISABELLA  looks  amazed. 

Mr.  Seal.  Madam,  I  can't  blame  your 
being  a  little  surprised  to  see  a  perfect 
stranger  make  a  visit,  and 

Isab.  I  am  indeed  surprised! — I  see  he 
does  not  know  me.  [Aside. 

Mr.  Seal.  You  are  very  prettily  lodged 
here,  madam;  in  troth  you  seem  to  have 
everything  in  plenty — A  thousand  a  year,  I 
warrant  you,  upon  this  pretty  nest  of  rooms, 
and  the  dainty  one  within  them. 

[Aside,   and  looking  about. 

Isab.     [Apart.}    Twenty     years,     it     seems, 


have  less  effect  in  the  alteration  of  a  man  of 
thirty  than  of  a  girl  of  fourteen — he's  almost 
still  the  same;  but  alas!  I  find,  by  other 
men,  as  well  as  himself,  I  am  not  what  I  was. 
As  soon  as  he  spoke,  I  was  convinced  'twas 
he;  how  shall  I  contain  my  surprise  and 
satisfaction !  He  must  not  know  me  yet. 

Mr.  Seal.  Madam,  I  hope  I  don't  give  you 
any  disturbance;  but  there  is  a  young  lady 
here  with  whom  I  have  a  particular  business 
to  discourse,  and  I  hope  she  will  admit  me 
to  that  favor. 

Isab.  Why,  sir,  have  you  had  any  notice 
concerning  her?  I  wonder  who  could  give  it 
you. 

Mr.  Seal.  That,  madam,  is  fit  only  to  be 
communicated  to  herself. 

Isab.  Well,  sir!  you  shall  see  her. — 
[Aside.}  I  find  he  knows  nothing  yet,  nor 
shall  from  me.  I  am  resolved  I  will  observe 
this  interlude,  this  sport  of  nature  and  of 
fortune. — You  shall  see  her  presently,  sir; 
for  now  I  am  as  a  mother,  and  will  trust 
her  with  you.  [Exit. 

Mr.  Seal.  As  a  mother!  right;  that's  the 
old  phrase  for  one  of  those  commode  ladies, 
who  lend  out  beauty  for  hire  to  young  gen- 
tlemen that  have  pressing  occasions.  But 
here  comes  the  precious  lady  herself.  In 
troth  a  very  sightly  woman 

Enter  INDIANA. 

I  nil.  I  am  told,  sir,  you  have  some  affair 
that  requires  your  speaking  with  me. 

Mr.  Seal.  Yes,  madam,  there  came  to  my 
hands  a  bill  drawn  by  Mr.  Bevil,  which  is 
payable  to-morrow;  and  he,  in  the  inter- 
course of  business,  sent  it  to  me,  who  have 
cash  of  his,  and  desired  me  to  send  a  servant 
with  it;  but  I  have  made  bold  to  bring  you 
the  money  myself. 

Ind.     Sir!  was   that  necessary? 

Mr.  Seal.  No,  madam;  but  to  be  free  with 
you,  the  fame  of  your  beauty,  and  the  re- 
gard which  Mr.  Bevil  is  a  little  too  well 
known  to  have  for  you,  excited  my  curiosity. 

Ind.  Too  well  known  to  have  for  me ! 
Your  sober  appearance,  sir,  which  my  friend 
described,  made  me  expect  no  rudeness,  or 
absurdity,  at  least— Who's  there?— Sir,  if  you 
pay  the  money  to  a  servant,  'twill  be  as 
well. 

Mr.  Seal.  Pray,  madam,  be  not  offended; 
I  came  hither  on  an  innocent,  nay,  a  vir- 
tuous design;  and,  if  you  will  have  patience 
to  hear  me,  it  may  be  as  useful  to  you,  as 
you  are  in  a  friendship  with  Mr.  Bevil,  as  to 
my  only  daughter,  whom  I  was  this  day  dis- 
posing of. 

Ind.  You  make  me  hope,  sir,  I  have  mis- 
taken you.  I  am  composed  again;  be  free, 
say  on — \.lsiil,-.] — what  I  am  afraid  to  hear. 

Mr.  Seal.  I  feared,  indeed,  an  unwarranted 
passion  here,  but  I  did  not  think  it  was  in 


257 


ACT  V,  Sc.  III. 


THE  CONSCIOUS  LOVERS 


abuse  of  so  worthy  an  object,  so  accom- 
plished a  lady  as  your  sense  and  mien  be- 
speak; but  the  youth  of  our  age  care  not 
what  merit  and  virtue  they  bring  to  shame, 

so  they  gratify 

Ind.  Sir,  you  are  going  into  very  great 
errors;  but  as  you  are  pleased  to  say  you 
see  something  in  me  that  has  changed  at 
least  the  color  of  your  suspicions,  so  has 
your  appearance  altered  mine,  and  made  me 
earnestly  attentive  to  what  has  any  way  con- 
cerned you  to  inquire  into  my  affairs  and 


sensibly,    with    what    an 
be    seated,    and    tell    me 


character. 

Mr.   Seal.     How 
air  she  talks! 

Ind.  Good  sir, 
tenderly;  keep  all  your  suspicions  concerning 
me  alive,  that  you  may  in  a  proper  and  pre- 
pared way  acquaint  me  why  the  care  of  your 
daughter  obliges  a  person  of  your  seeming 
worth  and  fortune  to  be  thus  inquisitive 

about     a     wretched,     helpless,     friendless 

[Weeping.]  But  I  beg  your  pardon;  though 
I  am  an  orphan,  your  child  is  not;  and 
your  concern  for  her,  it  seems,  has  brought 
you  hither. — I'll  be  composed;  pray  go  on, 
sir. 

Mr.  Seal.  How  could  Mr.  Bevil  be  such  a 
monster,  to  injure  such  a  woman? 

Ind.  No,  sir,  you  wrong  him;  he  has 
not  injured  me.  My  support  is  from  his 
bounty. 

Mr.  Seal.  Bounty !  when  gluttons  give 
high  prices  for  delicates,  they  are  prodigious 
bountiful. 

Ind.  Still,  still  you  will  persist  in  that 
error.  But  my  own  fears  tell  me  all.  You 
are  the  gentleman,  1  suppose,  for  whose 
happy  daughter  he  is  designed  a  husband 
by  his  good  father,  and  he  has,  perhaps, 
consented  to  the  overture.  He  was  here 
this  morning,  dressed  beyond  his  usual  plain- 
ness— nay,  most  sumptuously — and  he  is  to 
be,  perhaps,  this  night  a  bridegroom. 

Mr.  Seal.  I  own  he  was  intended  such; 
but,  madam,  on  your  account,  I  have  de- 
termined to  defer  my  daughter's  marriage 
till  I  am  satisfied  from  your  own  mouth  of 
what  nature  are  the  obligations  you  are 
under  to  him. 

Ind.  His  actions,  sir;  his  eyes  have  only 
made  me  think  he  designed  to  make  me  the 
partner  of  his  heart.  The  goodness  and 
gentleness  of  his  demeanor  made  me  mis- 
interpret all.  "Twas  my  own  hope,  my  own 
passion,  that  deluded  me;  he  never  made  one 
amorous  advance  to  me.  His  large  heart, 
and  bestowing  hand,  have  only  helped  the 
miserable;  nor  know  I  why,  but  from  his 
mere  delight  in  virtue,  that  I  have  been 
his  care  and  the  object  on  which  to  indulge 
and  please  himself  with  pouring  favors. 

Mr.  Seal.  Madam,  I  know  not  why  it  is, 
but  I,  as  well  as  you,  am  methinks  afraid 


of  entering  into  the  matter  I  came  about; 
but  'tis  the  same  thing  as  if  we  had  talked 

never  so  distinctly he  ne'er  shall  have  a 

daughter  of  mine. 

Ind.  If  you  say  this  from  what  you  think 
of  me,  you  wrong  yourself  and  him.  Let  not 
me,  miserable  though  I  may  be,  do  injury 
to  my  benefactor.  No,  sir,  my  treatment 
ought  rather  to  reconcile  you  to  his  virtues. 
If  to  bestow  without  a  prospect  of  return; 
if  to  delight  in  supporting  what  might,  per- 
haps, be  thought  an  object  of  desire,  with 
no  other  view  than  to  be  her  guard  against 
those  who  would  not  be  so  disinterested;  if 
these  action*,  sir,  can  in  a  careful  parent's 
eye  commend  him  to  a  daughter,  give  yours, 
sir,  give  her  to  my  honest,  generous  Bevil. 
What  have  I  to  do  but  sigh,  and  weep,  to 
rave,  run  wild,  a  lunatic  in  chains,  or,  hid 
in  darkness,  mutter  in  distracted  starts  and 
broken  accents  my  strange,  strange  story! 

Mr.    Seal.     Take    comfort,    madam. 

Ind.  All  my  comfort  must  be  to  expostu- 
late in  madness,  to  relieve  with  frenzy  my 
despair,  and  shrieking  to  demand  of  fate 
why — why  was  I  born  to  such  variety  of 
sorrows. 

Mr.  Seal.  If  I  have  been  the  least  occa- 
sion  

Ind.  No,  'twas  Heaven's  high  will  I 
should  be  such;  to  be  plundered  in  my 
cradle!  tossed  on  the  seas!  and  even  there 
an  infant  captive !  to  lose  my  mother,  hear 
but  of  my  father!  to  be  adopted!  lose  my 
adopter!  then  plunged  again  into  worse 
calamities ! 

Mr.  Seal.     An  infant  captive! 

Ind.  Yet  then,  to  find  the  most  charm- 
ing of  mankind,  once  more  to  set  me  free 
from  what  I  thought  the  last  distress,  to 
load  me  with  his  services,  his  bounties,  and 
his  favors;  to  support  my  very  life  in  a  way 
that  stole,  at  the  same  time,  my  very  soul 
itself  from  me. 

Mr.  Seal.  And  has  young  Bevil  been  this 
worthy  man  ? 

Ind.  Yet  then,  again,  this  very  man  to 
take  another!  without  leaving  me  the  right, 
the  pretence  of  easing  my  fond  heart  with 
tears !  For,  oh !  I  can't  reproach  him, 
though  the  same  hand  that  raised  me  to 
this  height  now  throws  me  down  the  preci- 
pice. 

Mr.  Seal.  Dear  lady!  Oh,  yet  one  mo- 
ment's patience:  my  heart  grows  full  with 
your  affliction. — But  yet  there's  something 
in  your  story  that 

Ind.  My  portion  here  is  bitterness  and 
sorrow. 

Mr.  Seal.  Do  not  think  so.  Pray  answer 
me:  does  Bevil  know  your  name  and  family? 

1  ml.  Alas !  too  well !  Oh,  could  I  be  any 

other  thing  than  what  I  am I'll  tear  away 

all  traces  of  my  former  self,  my  little  orna- 


258 


ACT  V,  Sc.  III. 


ments,    the    remains    of    my    first    state,    the 

hints    of    what    I    ought    to    have    been 

[In  her  disorder  she  throws  away  a  bracelet, 
which  SEALAND  takes  up,  and  looks 
earnestly  on  it. 

Mr.  Seal.  Ha!  what's  this?  My  eyes  are 
not  deceived!  It  is,  it  is  the  same!  the 
very  bracelet  which  I  bequeathed  to  my 
wife  at  our  last  mournful  parting. 

Ind.  What  said  you,  sir?  Your  wife? 
Whither  does  my  fancy  carry  me?  What 
means  this  unfelt  motion  at  my  heart?  And 
yet,  again  my  fortune  but  deludes  me;  for 
if  I  err  not,  sir,  your  name  is  Sealand;  but 
my  lost  father's  name  was 

Mr.    Seal.     Danvers;   was   it  not? 

Ind.  What  new  amazement?  That  is, 
indeed,  my  family. 

Mr.  Seal.  Know,  then,  when  my  misfor- 
tunes drove  me  to  the  Indies,  for  reasons  too 
tedious  now  to  mention,  I  changed  my  name 
of  Danvers  into  Sealand. 

Enter   ISABELLA. 

Isab.  If  yet  there  wants  an  explanation 
of  your  wonder,  examine  well  this  face 
(yours,  sir,  I  well  remember),  gaze  on  and 
read  in  me  your  sister,  Isabella. 

Mr.   Seal.     My   sister! 

Isab.  But  here's  a  claim  more  tender 

yet your  Indiana,  sir,  your  long-lost 

daughter. 

Mr.  Seal.     Oh,  my  child!  my  child! 

Ind.  AH  gracious  Heaven!  is  it  possible! 
do  I  embrace  my  father? 

Mr.  Seal.  And  do  I  hold  thee?— These 
passions  are  too  strong  for  utterance.  Rise, 
rise,  my  child,  and  give  my  tears  their  way. 


— Oh,   my   sister! 


[Embracing   her. 


Isab.  Now,  dearest  niece,  my  groundless 
fears,  my  painful  cares  no  more  shall  vex 
thee.  If  I  have  wronged  thy  noble  lover 
with  too  hard  suspicions,  my  just  concern 
for  thee,  I  hope,  will  plead  my  pardon. 

Mr.  Seal.  Oh!  make  him,  then,  the  full 
amends,  and  be  yourself  the  messenger  of 
joy.  Fly  this  instant!  tell  him  all  these 
wondrous  turns  of  Providence  in  his  favor! 
Tell  him  I  have  now  a  daughter  to  bestow 
which  he  no  longer  will  decline;  that  this 
day  he  still  shall  be  a  bridegroom;  nor  shall 
a  fortune,  the  merit  which  his  father  seeks, 
be  wanting.  Tell  him  the  reward  of  all  his 
virtues  waits  on  his  acceptance.  [Exit 
ISAB.]  My  dearest  Indiana! 

[Turns    and    embraces   her. 

Ind.  Have  I,  then,  at  last,  a  father's 
sanction  on  my  love?  His  bounteous  hand 
to  give,  and  make  my  heart  a  present 
worthy  of  Bevil's  generosity? 

Mr.  Seal.  Oh,  my  child!  how  are  our  sor- 
rows past  o'erpaid  by  such  a  meeting! 
Though  I  have  lost  so  many  years  of  soft 
paternal  dalliance  with  thee,  yet,  in  one  day 


to  find  thee  thus,  and  thus  bestow  thee,  in 
such  perfect  happiness,  is  ample,  ample  repa- 
ration!—And  yet,  again,  the  merit  of  thy 
lover 

Ind.  Oh!  had  I  spirits  left  to  tell  you  of 
his  actions!  how  strongly  filial  duty  has 
suppressed  his  love;  and  how  concealment 
still  has  doubled  all  his  obligations;  the 
pride,  the  joy  of  his  alliance,  sir,  would 
warm  your  heart,  as  he  has  conquered  mine. 

Mr.  Seal.  How  laudable  is  love  when 
born  of  virtue!  I  burn  to  embrace  him 

Ind.  See,  sir,  my  aunt  already  has  suc- 
ceeded, and  brought  him  to  your  wishes. 

Enter  ISABELLA,  with  SIR  JOHN  BEVIL,  BEVIL, 
JUN.,  MRS.  SEALAND,  CIMBERTON,  MYRTLE, 
and  LUCINDA. 

Sir  J.  Ber.  [Entering.}  Where,  where's  this 
scene  of  wonder?  Mr.  Sealand,  I  congratu- 
late, on  this  occasion,  our  mutual  happiness 

Your  good  sister,  sir,  has,  with  the  story 

of  your  daughter's  fortune,  filled  us  with 
surprise  and  joy.  Now  all  exceptions  are 
removed;  my  son  has  now  avowed  his  love, 
and  turned  all  former  jealousies  and  doubts 
to  approbation;  and,  I  am  told,  your  good- 
ness has  consented  to  reward  him. 

Mr.  Seal.  If,  sir,  a  fortune  equal  to  his 
father's  hopes  can  make  this  object  worthy 
his  acceptance. 

Bev.  Jit  n.  I  hear  your  mention,  sir,  of 
fortune,  with  pleasure  only  as  it  may  prove 
the  means  to  reconcile  the  best  of  fathers 
to  my  love.  Let  him  be  provident,  but  let 
me  be  happy.— My  ever-destined,  my  ac- 


knowledged  wife ! 


[Embracing   INDIANA. 


Ind.  Wife!  Oh,  my  ever  loved!  My  lord! 
my  master! 

Sir  J.  Bev.  I  congratulate  myself,  as  well 
as  you,  that  I  had  a  son  who  could,  under 
such  disadvantages,  discover  your  great 
merit. 

Mr.  Seal.  Oh,  Sir  John!  how  vain,  how 
weak  is  human  prudence !  What  care,  what 
foresight,  what  imagination  could  contrive 
such  blest  events,  to  make  our  children 
happy,  as  Providence  in  one  short  hour  has 
laid  before  us? 

Cimb.  [To  MRS.  SEALAND.]  I  am  afraid, 
madam,  Mr.  Sealand  is  a  little  too  busy  for 
our  affair.  If  you  please,  we'll  take  another 
opportunity. 

Mrs.   Seal.     Let  us  have  patience,  sir. 

Cimb.  But  we  make  Sir  Geoffry  wait, 
madam. 

Myrt.     O,   sir,   I   am   not   in   haste. 

[During  this,  BEV.,  JUN.  presents  LUCINDA 
to  INDIANA. 

Mr.  Seal.  But  here!  here's  our  general 
benefactor!  Excellent  young  man,  that  could 


259 


ACT  V,  Sc.  III. 


THE  CONSCIOUS  LOVERS 


be  at  once  a  lover  to  her  beauty  and  a 
parent  to  her  virtue. 

Be:-.  Jun.  If  you  think  that  an  obligation, 
sir.  give  me  leave  to  overpay  myself,  in 
the  only  instance  that  can  now  add  to  my 
felicity,  by  begging  you  to  bestow  this  lady 
on  Mr.  Myrtle. 

Mr.  Seal.  She  is  his  without  reserve;  I 
beg  he  may  be  sent  for.  Mr.  Cimberton, 
notwithstanding  you  never  had  my  consent, 
yet  there  is,  since  I  last  saw  you,  another 
objection  to  your  marriage  with  my  daughter. 

Cimb.  I  hope,  sir,  your  lady  has  con- 
cealed nothing  from  me? 

Mr.  Seal.  Troth,  sir,  nothing  but  what 
was  concealed  from  myself — another  daugh- 
ter, who  has  an  undoubted  title  to  half  my 
estate. 

Cimb.  How,  Mr.  Sealand?  Why,  then,  if 
half  Mrs.  Lucinda's  fortune  is  gone,  you 
can't  say  that  any  of  my  estate  is  settled 
upon  her.  I  was  in  treaty  for  the  whole; 
but  if  that  is  not  to  be  come  at,  to  be  sure 
there  can  be  no  bargain.  Sir,  I  have  nothing 
to  do  but  to  take  my  leave  of  your  good 
lady,  my  cousin,  and  beg  pardon  for  the 
trouble  I  have  given  this  old  gentleman. 

Myrt.  That  you  have,  Mr.  Cimberton, 
with  all  my  heart.  [Discovers  himself. 

All.     Mr.  Myrtle! 

Myrt.  And  I  beg  pardon  of  the  whole 
company  that  I  assumed  the  person  of  Sir 
Geoffry,  only  to  be  present  at  the  danger 
of  this  lady's  being  disposed  of,  and  in  her 


utmost  exigence  to  assert  my  right  to  her; 
which,  if  her  parents  will  ratify,  as  they 
once  favored  my  pretensions,  no  abatement 
of  fortune  shall  lessen  her  value  to  me. 

Luc.     Generous    man ! 

Mr.  Seal.  If,  sir,  you  can  overlook  the 
injury  of  being  in  treaty  with  one  who  as 
meanly  left  her,  as  you  have  generously 
asserted  your  right  in  her,  she  is  yours. 

Luc.  Mr.  Myrtle,  though  you  have  ever 
had  my  heart,  yet  now  I  find  I  love  you 
more,  because  I  bring  you  less. 

Myrt.  We  have  much  more  than  we 
want;  and  I  am  glad  any  event  has  con- 
tributed to  the  discovery  of  our  real  in- 
clinations to  each  other. 

Mrs.  Seal.  Well!  however,  I'm  glad  the 
girl's  disposed  of,  anyway.  [Aside. 

Bev.  Myrtle,  no  longer  rivals  now,  but 
brothers ! 

Myrt.     Dear    Bevil,    you    are    born    to    tri- 

ceases;  I  rejoice  in  the  pre-eminence  of  your 
virtue,  and  your  alliance  adds  charms  to 
Lucinda. 

Sir  J.  Bev.  Now,  ladies  and  gentlemen, 
you  have  set  the  world  a  fair  example:  your 
happiness  is  owing  to  your  constancy  and 
merit;  and  the  several  difficulties  you  have 
struggled  with  evidently  show — 

Whate'er  the  generous  mind  itself  denies, 
The  secret  care  of  Providence  supplies. 

[Exeunt. 


260 


JOHN    GAY 


THE    BEGGAR'S    OPERA 


JOHN  GAY,  the  author  of  The  Beggar's  Opera  and  many  things  beside, 
holds  a  place  all  his  own  among  English  men  of  letters.  Pope,  who  knew 
and  loved  him  well — to  know  Gay  was  to  love  him — summed  up  the  man's 
whole  story  in  one  antithetic  phrase,  "  In  wit  a  man,  simplicity  a  child ; "  for 
it  is  true  that  Gay  never  grew  up.  To  the  day  of  his  death  in  his  middle 
forties  he  was  as  irresponsible,  as  lazy  and  slovenly,  as  immoderate  in  his 
meat  and  drink,  and  altogether  as  helplessly  dependent  upon  the  guidance  and 
care  of  others  as  any  grammar-school  urchin.  All  life  and  work  were  his 
playground,  and  his  many  friends  guarded  and  encouraged  him  in  his  clever 
play,  just  as  protecting  grown-ups  watch  over  careless  childhood  at  sport. 
Gay's  alternate  buoyancy  and  depression,  delight  and  despair,  are  the  happi- 
ness and  sorrow  of  a  child  plunging  from  dizzy  heights  to  depths.  But  for- 
tunately for  us,  whatever  wails  may  have  risen  to  heaven,  when  Gay  deemed 
himself  neglected,  little  of  this  juvenile  lamentation  creeps  into  his  work.  In 
his  best  poetry  he  is  unalloyed  joy. 

Of  Gay's  early  years  there  is  little  to  tell.  Born  in  1685  of  a  Devonshire 
family  of  longer  pedigree  than  purses,  he  received  his  only  education  at  the 
school  of  his  native  town  of  Barnstaple,  from  which  he  bore  away  some 
knowledge  of  the  classics.  Then  there  were  days  of.  idle  apprenticeship  to 
a  London  silk  mercer,  followed  by  a  long  period  leisurely  given  by  the  youth 
to  seeking  in  taverns  and  coffee-houses  the  company  of  the  great,  so  easily 
accessible  in  that  age,  and  to  merrily  inviting  whatever  of  soul  was  in  him. 
By  the  time  he  was  thirty  he  had  found  both  his  fellows  and  himself.  Boling- 
broke,  Swift,  Arbuthnot,  and  Pope  were  now  his  loyal  friends,  and  the  Duchess 
of  Monmouth  had  taken  him  into  her  service.  He  had  wandered  unintelli- 
gently  enough  within  the  circle  of  Chaucer's  magic  in  his  unsuccessful  comedy 
of  1713,  The  Wife  of  Bath.  He  had  caught  and  held  the  ear  of  the  town 
with  two  poems  of  country  life,  Rural  Sports,  which  Dr.  Johnson  deemed 
"  never  contemptible  and  never  excellent,"  and  that  delightful  burlesque,  The 
Shepherd's  Week,  a  culminating  contribution  to  Pope's  pastoral  war  with 
Ambrose  Philips.  He  had  won,  too,  the  favor  of  the  great,  and  accompanied 
as  secretary  Lord  Clarendon  on  a  diplomatic  mission  to  the  Court  of  Han- 
over in  1714.  Then  with  the  death  of  Queen  Anne,  while  Gay  was  still 
abroad,  seemed  to  come  the  end  of  all  his  hopes.  But  our  disappointed  poet, — 

261 


THE  BEGGAR'S  OPERA 


unlike  his  friend,  Swift,  eating  out  his  heart  in  exile — does  not  attain  to  the 
dignity  of  a  tragic  figure.  Indeed,  Gay's  description  of  his  dramatic  burlesque 
of  the  year  1/15,  The  What  d'ye  Call  It — in  which,  by  the  way,  he  had  his 
laugh  at  Cato  and  Venice  Preserved — as  a  "  tragi-comi-pastoral  farce"  ap- 
plies pretty  well  to  his  own  life  at  this  time.  His  distress  over  his  lack  of 
employment  and  his  empty  pockets  affects  us  like  the  passing  grief  of  child- 
hood, for  we  know  that  friends  will  be  kind  and  that  skies  will  clear.  Pope, 
who  has  aided  him  in  his  satire,  cordially  bids  him  to  Binfield  or  to  Twicken- 
ham, Burlington  plays  the  host  in  Piccadilly  and  at  English  watering  places, 
Pulteney  carries  him  off  for  a  season  to  Aix-la-Chapelle,  Harcourt  lends  him 
a  house  in  Oxfordshire.  His  loudly  bewailed  martyrdom  assumes  the  form 
of  an  agreeable  dependence. 

Though  over-easy  in  his  life,  Gay  seems,  as  a  writer,  always  quick  enough 
to  catch  the  moment  with  play,  tale,  eclogue,  epistle,  or  song.  Trivia:  or 
The  Art  of  Walking  the  Streets  of  London,  published  early  in  1716,  brings 
to  bear  upon  the  metropolis  the  same  humorous  observation  that  he  ear- 
lier cast  upon  his  Devonshire  countryside.  Three  Hours  after  Marriage, 
written  with  Pope  in  1/17,  may  have  deservedly  failed  with  audience  and 
critics,  but  it  lined  Gay's  purse.  And  in  1720  his  collected  poems  pranced  forth 
with  a  dazzling  subscription  list  of  all  the  noblesse.  The  thousand  pounds, 
thus  easily  won,  were  as  easily  lost  with  the  pricking  of  the  South  Sea  bubble. 
Still  what  does  it  all  matter?  Providence  kindly  interposes  with  the  sinecure 
of  a  lottery  commissionship  and  with  a  dispensation,  of  far  more  value  to 
the  improvident  poet  than  a  salary  of  £150,  the  friendship  of  the  Duke  of 
Queensberry  and  his  brilliant  Duchess.  His  tragedy  of  indifferent  merit, 
The  Captives  (1724),  with  Wilks,  Booth,  Mrs.  Porter,  and  Mrs.  Oldfield  in 
the  chief  roles,  was  applauded  not  only  by  all  London,  but  by  royalty  itself. 
The  next  year  finds  Gay  writing  for  young  Prince  William,  afterwards  the 
bloody  Duke  of  Cumberland,  a  series  of  Fables,  which  did  more  for  the 
poet's  fame  than  all  his  other  works  combined.  And  deservedly  so,  for  the 
charming  simplicity  and  graceful  verse  of  these  little  productions,  which  are 
so  much  more  than  mere  imitations  of  Lafontaine  and  Lamotte,  make  a  nat- 
ural appeal  to  the  world  of  childhood  and  their  social  applications  interest 
many  older  readers.  It  was  doubtless  as  a  fabulist  that  Gay  was  offered  in 
1727  the  position  of  gentleman-usher  to  little  Princess  Louisa,  which  he, 
playing  the  grown  man  for  the  nonce,  loftily  declined  as  undignified.  This 
disappointment  must  have  been  speedily  forgotten  in  the  tremendous  vogue 
of  the  very  work  that  it  provoked,  Gay's  delightful  satire  against  courts  and 
ministers,  The  Beggar's  Opera  (1728).  Its  sequel  of  the  same  year,  Polly, 
though  denied  the  stage  by  the  Lord  Chancellor,  prospered  mightily  in  print. 
Duchesses  rallied  about  him  in  his  luxurious  role  of  political  martyr  and 
the  Queensberrys  deserted  the  court  for  the  sake  of  their  protege.  He  be- 
came, as  Arbuthnot  tells  us,  "  the  darling  of  the  city." 

The  rest  of  Gay's  story  is  but  anticlimax;   for  during  the  four  years 

262 


THE  BEGGAR'S  OPERA 


remaining  to  him  he  produced  nothing  of  great  note.  An  opera,  Achilles,  a 
pastoral  drama,  Acis  and  Galatea,  and  a  few  fables  prove  that  he  was  not 
altogether  idle.  The  end  came  suddenly  at  the  Queensberry  town  house  on 
December  5,  1732.  Upon  the  splendid  monument  which  marks  Gay's  resting- 
place  in  the  Poets'  Corner  of  Westminster  appear  Pope's  epitaph  and  his  own 
flippant  couplet: — 

"Life  is  a  jest,  and  all  things  show  it. 
I  thought  so  once,  and  now  I  know  it." 

Our  concern  is  with  but  a  single  work  of  Gay,  The  Beggar's  Opera.  No 
other  account  of  the  conception  and  presentation  of  this  great  popular  suc- 
cess can  compare  with  that  of  Pope  in  Spence's  Anecdotes:  "  Dr.  Swift  had 
been  observing  once  to  Mr.  Gay,  what  an  odd  pretty  sort  of  thing  a  Newgate 
Pastoral  might  make.  Gay  was  inclined  to  try  at  such  a  thing  for  some  time ; 
but  afterwards  thought  it  would  be  better  to  write  a  comedy  on  the  same 
plan.  This  was  what  gave  rise  to  The  Beggar's  Opera.  He  began  on  it; 
and  when  he  first  mentioned  it  to  Swift,  the  Doctor  did  not  much  like  the 
project.  As  he  carried  it  on,  he  showed  what  he  wrote  to  both  of  us,  and  we 
now  and  then  gave  a  correction,  or  a  word  or  two  of  advice ;  but  it  was 
wholly  of  his  own  writing.  When  it  was  done,  neither  of  us  thought  that  it 
would  succeed.  We  showed  it  to  Congreve,  who,  after  reading  it  over,  said : 
'  It  would  either  take  greatly  or  be  damned  confoundedly.'  We  were  all,  at 
the  first  night  of  it,  in  great  uncertainty  of  the  event;  till  we  heard  the 
Duke  of  Argyll,  who  sat  in  the  next  box  to  us,  say :  '  It  will  do,  it  must  do ! 
I  see  it  in  the  eyes  of  them.'  This  was  a  good  while  before  the  first  act 
was  over,  and  gave  us  ease  soon ;  for  the  Duke  (besides  his  own  good  taste) 
has  a  particular  knack,  as  any  one  now  living,  in  discovering  the  taste  of 
the  public.  He  was  quite  right  in  this,  as  usual ;  the  good  nature  of  audience 
appeared  stronger  and  stronger  every  act,  and  ended  in  a  clamor  of  ap- 
plause." Never  was  a  triumph  more  complete.  The  play,  as  wags  de- 
clared, "made  Gay  rich  and  Rich  (the  theatre  manager)  gay."  A  run  of 
sixty-three  days  in  the  metropolis  was  followed  by  a  brilliant  progress  through 
the  provinces.  The  best  of  its  many  songs  appeared  on  screens  and  fans. 
Macheath,  wavering  between  Polly  and  Lucy,  was  painted  several  times  by 
Hogarth.  Lavinia  Fenton,  who  played  the  role  of  Polly,  now  reigned  as 
universal  favorite  and  later  married  her  duke.  "  Furthermore  " — Pope  is 
speaking — "the  piece  drove  out  of  England  (for  that  season)  the  Italian 
Opera,  which  had  carried  all  before  it  for  ten  years." 

That  it  was  Gay's  deliberate  purpose  to  burlesque  the  Italian  Opera, 
which  had  dominated  the  musical  stage  of  England  not  for  a  decade,  but  for 
a  generation  (see  The  Spectator,  Nos.  5,  13,  18),  seems  most  unlikely,  for 
his  production  bears  no  relation  to  this  exotic  in  subject,  style,  or  form.  But 
that  the  success  of  the  innovation  temporarily  impaired  the  vogue  of  such 

263 


THE  BEGGAR'S  OPERA 


composers  as  Handel  and  Buononcini  cannot  be  questioned.  Gay  created,  or 
rather,  derived  from  the  masque  through  the  "  heroic  "  opera  a  popular  form 
of  drama,  the  ballad  opera,  which  seemed  to  Johnson  fifty  years  later  "  likely 
to  keep  long  possession  of  the  stage  "  and  which  found  its  high-water  mark 
in  The  Duenna  of  Sheridan.  The  chief  contrast  between  the  eighteenth- 
century  ballad  opera  and  the  comic  opera,  let  us  say,  of  Gilbert  and  Sullivan 
lies  in  this,  that  in  Gay's  invention  the  music  holds  a  so  much  less  important 
place  than  the  prose  dialogue  that  the  numerous  songs,  which  are  set  to 
popular  airs,  are  introduced  into  the  middle  of  the  scenes  and  could  all  be 
omitted  without  spoiling  the  plot.  Indeed,  Walker,  the  first  impersonator  of 
Macheath,  "  knew  no  more  of  music  than  barely  singing  in  tune ;  but  then 
his  singing  was  supported  by  inimitable  action,  by  his  speaking  to  the  eye  and 
charming  the  ear."  Lavinia  Fenton's  acknowledged  position  as  "  Queen  of 
English  Song  "  must,  however,  have  contributed  greatly  to  the  success  of  the 
opera. 

That  Gay  derived  either  the  characters  or  plot  of  The  Beggar's  Opera 
from  any  earlier  drama  is  not  demonstrated  by  any  evidence  yet  presented. 
The  charge  of  contemporaries  that  he  stole  from  The  Dutch  Courtesan  of 
John  Marston  through  The  Woman's  Revenge  (1715)  of  Christopher  Bul- 
lock is  as  unsupported  as  the  assertion  of  modern  scholarship  that  he  was 
deeply  indebted  to  Richard  Brome's  Merry  Beggars  (1641).  Here  or  there 
we  meet  a  seeming  reminiscence  of  these  forerunners,  but  the  borrowing, 
if  such  it  be,  is  probably  unconscious.  And  the  occasional  parallels  with 
famous  comedies  of  both  sides  of  the  Channel,  pointed  out  by  German 
source-hunters,  are  sheer  coincidences.  The  inspiration  of  Gay's  dramatic 
burlesque  lay  not  in  books  but  in  life.  He  found  the  prototypes  of  his  chief 
figures  in  the  "  underworld  "  of  his  time.  The  original  of  Peachum  was  the 
great  Napoleon  of  the  realms  of  crime  in  the  eighteenth  century,  Jonathan 
Wilde,  afterwards  Fielding's  hero — spy,  fence,  and  thief — who,  but  three 
years  before,  had  been  hanged  at  Tyburn.  And  probably  Macheath's  model 
was  the  equally  notorious  Jack  Sheppard,  burglar  and  highwayman,  who,  since 
his  very  recent  death,  had  become  dramatic  material  at  both  Drury  Lane  and 
Lincoln's  Inn  Fields, — a  full  century  before  Harrison  Ainsworth  celebrated 
his  exploits. 

Gay  was,  however,  striking  at  loftier  game  than  wretched  footpads  and 
runagates.  The  corruption  that  everywhere  flaunted  in  high  places  is  the  real 
object  of  his  attack  and  the  chief  apostle  of  bribery,  the  prime  minister  him- 
self, is  constantly  the  butt  of  thinly  veiled  satire.  Every  one,  of  course, 
instantly  recognized  in  Robin  of  Bagshot,  alias  Bluff  Bob,  alias  Carbuncle, 
alias  Bob  Booty,  the  allusions  to  Sir  Robert  Walpole's  rough  manners,  roar- 
ing conviviality,  and  unblushing  incursions  upon  the  public  purse,  and  all 
construed  the  quarrel  between  Peachum  and  Lockit  as  a  picture  of  the  strife 
between  Walpole  and  Townshend.  But  those  who  went  farther  and  sought 
to  interpret  Macheath's  shameless  career  as  a  complete  allegory  of  the  private 

264 


THE  BEGGAR'S  OPERA 


life  and  public  service  of  the  unscrupulous  but  efficient  premier,  or  who  tried 
to  read  into  the  unsavory  records  of  the  other  rogues  of  the  piece  the  stories 
of  certain  noble  lords,  surely  exaggerated  the  dramatist's  design.  Through 
slashing  side-strokes  at  "  Bob,  the  poet's  foe,"  Gay  doubtless  aimed  to  settle 
scores  for  his  long  neglect  at  the  hands  of  government.  Walpole  displayed 
sufficient  presence  of  mind  to  lead  the  applause  at  these  sallies,  as  Boling- 
broke  had  done  during  the  performance  of  Cato;  but  he  evidently  had  small 
relish  for  the  role  of  stage  highwayman,  if  we  are  right  in  assuming  that  the 
suppression  of  Gay's  sequel,  Polly,  was  achieved  through  his  powerful 
influence. 

The  charge  brought  against  The  Beggar's  Opera  by  Dr.  Herring,  Arch- 
bishop of  Canterbury,  and  echoed  by  a  man  so  different  as  Daniel  Defoe, 
that  the  play  "  taught  thieves  to  value  themselves  on  their  profession  rather 
than  be  ashamed  of  it  by  making  a  highwayman  the  hero  and  dismissing  him 
at  last  unpunished "  was  repeated  in  a  later  age  by  Justice  Fielding,  who 
feared  its  tendency  "  to  increase  the  number  of  thieves."  To  us  the  accusa- 
tion seems  as  absurd  as  the  commendation  of  the  piece  by  Swift  on  the  ground 
that  it  "  placed  all  kinds  of  vice  in  the  strongest  and  most  odious  light." 
After  these  extremes  one  welcomes  the  sound  judgment  of  Johnson  that  "the 
play  was  not  likely  to  do  either  good  or  evil,  as  it  was  written  solely  to 
divert."  And  divert  it  does  still.  The  modern  reader,  undisturbed  by  any 
fear  of  highwaymen,  untroubled  by  any  old-fashioned  sense  of  poetic  justice, 
and  heedless  of  political  allusion,  can  afford  to  laugh  at  old  scruples. 

Yet  no  play  in  this  volume  suffers  more  through  transference  from  stage 
to  closet  than  The  Beggar's  Opera.  Macheath  in  the  glow  of  action,  espe- 
cially when  impersonated  by  a  vigorous  actor,  might  easily  delight  audiences 
— as  indeed  he  did  for  over  a  century  and  a  half  (until  1886) — with  his 
riotous  gaiety  and  ready  song;  but  Macheath  in  cold  print  seems  so  mean  a 
liar  and  so  cruel  a  rake,  so  utterly  devoid  of  any  sign  of  grace  or  generosity, 
that  we  feel  little  sympathy  with  his  knavery.  Lucy,  "  bamboozled  and  bit," 
must  ever  give  more  pain  than  pleasure.  And  Polly,  convincing  though  she 
may  have  been  in  Lavinia  Fenton's  charming  portrayal,  and  in  the  skilful 
interpretation  of  many  generations  of  great  actresses,  is  morally  as  impos- 
sible in  her  Newgate  environment  as  on  the  tropical  island  of  the  sequel 
that  bears  her  name.  And  the  other  women  of  Macheath's  troop  are  not 
the  mere  "  filles  de  joie "  that  their  names  and  songs  suggest,  but  sordid 
monsters.  The  Peachums,  father  and  mother,  and  Lockit  are  the  real 
triumphs  of  the  piece.  They  are  of  the  eternal  fellowship  of  Defoe's  thieves 
and  of  Dickens's  dodgers  in  professional  skill  and  grim  humor.  Nothing  in 
the  play  equals  in  circumstantiality  or  outdoes  in  zest  the  enumeration  of 
the  gang  and  the  inventory  of  their  thefts.  All  this  is  delightfully, 
flagrantly  realistic. 

The  merits  of  the  plot  are  as  obvious  as  its  defects.  Lively  situations 
and  unflagging  movement  sweep  us  on  with  a  rush,  and  the  repeated  captures 

265 


THE  BEGGAR'S  OPERA 


and  escapes  of  the  highwayman  are  dextrously  varied.  The  dialogue  is  al- 
ways brisk  and  clever.  But  the  motif  that  prompts  the  designs  of  the  Peach- 
urns  upon  Macheath — disgust  that  he  has  legally  married  their  daughter — 
is  too  slight  and  unconvincing  to  support  much  action.  And  the  device  of 
the  reprieve,  as  the  author  himself  frankly  admits  from  the  stage,  is  a  con- 
cession to  the  town's  desire  for  a  happy  ending.  The  dramatist's  stage  com- 
ment upon  the  fate  of  his  puppets  recalls  the  self-criticism  of  Mr.  Bernard 
Shaw. 

That  Gay  possessed  the  singing  faculty  to  a  degree  surprising  in  his 
unmusical  age  had  been  many  times  attested  in  his  earlier  years.  The  repu- 
tation gained  by  such  popular  favorites  as  'Twos  When  the  Seas  Were 
Roaring  and  Sweet  William's  Farewell  was  now  tremendously  enhanced  by 
the  seventy  lyrics  of  his  ballad  opera,  of  which  all  but  a  few  were  Gay's 
own.  His  use  of  native  airs  of  wide  popularity,  Greensleeves,  Lillebullero, 
Peg-a-Ramsey,  Packington's  Pound,  Over  the  Hills  and  Far  Away,  and  many 
more  found  in  D'Urfey's  Pills  and  other  famous  collections,  contrasts  most 
pleasantly  with  the  introduction  of  Italian  arias  and  French  chansons  into 
Polly,  which  approaches  far  more  closely  than  its  predecessor  to  the  prevail- 
ing Italian  vogue. 


THE    BEGGAR'S    OPERA 


DRAMATIS  PERSONS 


MEN 


PEACHUM. 

LOCKIT. 

MACHEATH. 

FILCH. 

JEMMY    TWITCHER, 

CROOK-FINGER'D    JACK, 

WAT   DREARY, 

ROBIN    OF    BAGSHOT, 

NIMMING    NED, 

HARRY    PADINGTON, 

MAT   OF  THE  MINT, 

BEN    BUDGE, 

BEGGAR. 

PLAYER. 


i-  MACHEATH'S   Gang. 


WOMEN 


MRS.   PEACHUM. 
POLLY    PEACHUM. 
LUCY   LOCKIT. 
DIANA   TRAPES. 
MRS.    COAXER, 
DOLLY    TRULL, 
MRS.   VIXEN, 
BETTY  DOXY, 
JENNY    DIVER, 
MRS.   SLAMMEKIN, 
SUKY    TAWDRY, 
MOLLY    BRAZEN, 


>•  Women   of   the   Town. 


Constables,   Drawer,    Turnkey,   etc. 

INTRODUCTION 
BEGGAR,  PLAYER 

Beggar.  If  poverty  be  a  title  to  poetry,  I  am  sure  nobody  can  dispute 
mine.  I  own  myself  of  the  company  of  beggars;  and  I  make  one  at  their 
weekly  festivals  at  St.  Giles's.  I  have  a  small  yearly  salary  for  my  catches, 

266 


THE  BEGGAR'S  OPERA     - 


ACT  I,  Sc.  II. 


and  am  welcome  to  a  dinner  there  whenever  I  please,  which  is  more  than 
most  poets  can  say. 

Player.  As  we  live  by  the  muses,  'tis  but  gratitude  in  us  to  encourage 
poetical  merit  wherever  we  find  it.  The  muses,  contrary  to  all  other  ladies, 
pay  no  distinction  to  dress,  and  never  partially  mistake  the  pertness  of  em- 
broidery for  wit,  nor  the  modesty  of  want  for  dulness.  Be  the  author  who 
he  will,  we  push  his  play  as  far  as  it  will  go.  So  (though  you  are  in  want) 
I  wish  you  success  heartily. 

Beggar.  This  piece  I  own  was  originally  writ  for  the  celebrating  the 
marriage  of  James  Chanter  and  Moll  Lay,  two  most  excellent  ballad-singers. 
I  have  introduced  the  similes  that  are  in  your  celebrated  Operas :  the  Swal- 
low, the  Moth,  the  Bee,  the  Ship,  the  Flower,  etc.  Besides,  I  have  a  prison- 
scene  which  the  ladies  always  reckon  'charmingly  pathetic.  As  to  the  parts, 
I  have  observed  such  a  nice  impartiality  to  our  two  ladies,  that  it  is  impossible 
for  either  of  them  to  take  offence.  I  hope  I  may  be  forgiven,  that  I  have  not 
made  my  Opera  throughout  unnatural,  like  those  in  vogue ;  for  I  have  no 
recitative :  excepting  this,  as  I  have  consented  to  have  neither  prologue  nor 
epilogue,  it  must  be  allowed  an  Opera  in  all  its  forms.  The  piece  indeed  hath 
been  heretofore  frequently  presented  by  ourselves  in  our  great  room  at  St. 
Giles's,  so  that  I  cannot  too  often  acknowledge  your  charity  in  bringing  it 
now  on  the  stage. 

Player.  But  I  see  it  is  time  for  us  to  withdraw ;  the  actors  are  preparing 
to  begin.  Play  away  the  overture.  [Exeunt. 


ACT  I 

SCENE  I 
PEACH  UM'S   HOUSE. 

PEACHUM  sitting  at  a  table  with  a  large  book 
of   accounts   before    him. 

AIR  i — An  old  woman  clothed  in  gray,  etc. 

Through  all  the  employments  of  life, 

Each    neighbor    abuses    his    brother; 
Whore  and  rogue  they  call  husband  and  wife: 

AH  professions  be-rogue  one  another. 
The  priest  calls  the  lawyer  a  cheat, 

The  lawyer  be-knaves  the  divine; 
And  the  statesman,  because  he's  so  great, 

Thinks  his  trade  as  honest  as  mine. 

A  lawyer  is  an  honest  employment,  so  is 
mine.  Like  me,  too,  he  acts  in  a  double 
capacity,  both  against  rogues  and  for  'em; 
for  'tis  but  fitting  that  we  should  protect  and 
encourage  cheats,  since  we  live  by  them. 

SCENE   II 
PEACHUM,   FILCH. 
Filch.     Sir,  Black  Moll  hath  sent  word  her 


trial    comes    on    in    the    afternoon,    and    she  1  women 

267 


hopes  you  will  order  matters  so  as  to  bring 
her  off. 

Peach.  Why,  she  may  plead  her  belly  at 
worst;  to  my  knowledge  she  hath  taken  care 
of  that  security.  But  as  the  wench  is  very 
active  and  industrious,  you  may  satisfy  her 
that  I'll  soften  the  evidence. 

Filch.    Tom  Gagg,  Sir,  is  found  guilty. 

Peach.  A  lazy  dog!  When  I  took  him  the 
time  before,  I  told  him  what  he  would  come 
to  if  he  did  not  mend  his  hand.  This  is  death 
without  reprieve.  I  may  venture  to  book 
him.  (writes.)  For  Tom  Gagg,  forty  pounds. 
Let  Betty  Sly  know  that  I'll  save  her  from 
transportation,  for  I  can  get  more  by  her 
staying  in  England. 

Filch.  Betty  hath  brought  more  goods  into 
our  lock  to-year,  than  any  five  of  the  gang; 
and  in  truth,  'tis  a  pity  to  lose  so  good  a 
customer. 

Peach.  If  none  of  the  gang  take  her  off, 
she  may,  in  the  common  course  of  business, 
live  a  twelve-month  longer.  I  love  to  let 
women  scape.  A  good  sportsman  always 
lets  the  hen  partridges  fly,  because  the 
breed  of  the  game  depends  upon  them.  Be- 
sides, here  the  law  allows  us  no  reward; 
there  is  nothing  to  be  got  by  the  death  of 
ixcept  our  wives. 


ACT  I,  Sc.  IV. 


THE  BEGGAR'S  OPERA 


Filch.  Without  dispute,  she  is  a  fine 
woman !  'Twas  to  her  I  was  obliged  for  my 
education,  and  (to  say  a  bold  word)  she  had 
trained  up  more  young  fellows  to  the  busi- 
ness than  the  gaming-table. 

Peach.  Truly,  Filch,  thy  observation  is 
right.  We  and  the  surgeons  are  more  be- 
holden to  women  than  all  the  professions 
besides. 

AIR  ii — The   bonny  gray-eyed   morn,   etc. 

Filch. 

'Tis  woman  that  seduces  all  mankind, 
By  her  we  first  were  taught  the  wheedling 

arts; 
Her  very   eye*   can   cheat;  when  most   she's 

kind, 
She     tricks    us    of    our    money    with    our 

hearts. 
For   her,   like  wolves  by  night   we  roam  for 

prey, 
And    practise     ev'ry     fraud    to    bribe     her 

charms; 

For  suits  of  love,  like  law,  are  won  by  pay, 
And  beauty  must  be  fee'd  into  our  arms. 

Peach.  But  make  haste  to  Newgate,  boy, 
and  let  my  friends  know  what  I  intend;  for  I 
love  to  make  them  easy  one  way  or  other. 

Filch.  When  a  gentleman  is  long  kept  in 
suspense,  penitence  may  break  his  spirit 
ever  after.  Besides,  certainty  gives  a  man 
a  good  air  upon  his  trial,  and  makes  him  risk 
another  without  fear  or  scruple.  But  I'll 
away,  for  'tis  a  pleasure  to  be  the  messenger 
of  comfort  to  friends  in  affliction. 


SCENE   III 
PEACHUM. 

Peach.  But  'tis  now  high  time  to  look 
about  me  for  a  decent  execution  against  next 
sessions.  I  hate  a  lazy  rogue,  by  whom  one 
can  get  nothing  till  he  is  hanged.  A  register 
of  the  gang,  {reading)  "  Crook -fingered 
Jack.  A  year  and  a  half  in  the  service." 
Let  me  see  how  much  the  stock  owes  to  his 
industry;  one,  two,  three,  four,  five  gold 
watches,  and  seven  silver  ones.  A  mighty 
clean-handed  fellow!  Sixteen  snuff-boxes, 
five  of  them  of  true  gold.  Six  dozen  of 
handkerchiefs,  four  silver-hilted  swords,  half 
a  dozen  of  shirts,  three  tie-periwigs,  and  a 
piece  of  broadcloth.  Considering  these  are 
only  the  fruits  of  his  leisure  hours,  I  don't 
know  a  prettier  fellow,  for  no  man  alive  hath 
a  more  engaging  presence  of  mind  upon  the 
road.  "  Wat  Dreary,  alias  Brown  Will  " — an 
irregular  dog,  who  hath  an  underhand  way 
of  disposing  of  his  goods.  I'll  try  him  only 
for  a  sessions  or  two  longer  upon  his 
good  behavior.  "  Harry  Padington  "—a  poor 
petty-larceny  rascal,  without  the  least 
genius;  that  fellow,  though  he  were  to  live 


these  six  months,  will  never  come  to  the 
gallows  with  any  credit.  "  Slippery  Sam  "— 
he  goes  off  the  next  sessions,  for  the  villain 
hath  the  impudence  to  have  views  of  follow- 
ing his  trade  as  a  tailor,  which  he  calls  an 
honest  employment.  "  Mat  of  the  Mint  "— 
listed  not  above  a  month  ago,  a  promising 
sturdy  fellow,  and  diligent  in  his  way:  some- 
what too  bold  and  hasty,  and  may  raise  good 
contributions  on  the  public,  if  he  does  not 
cut  himself  short  by  murder.  "  Tom  Tipple  " 
— a  guzzling  soaking  sot,  who  is  always  too 
drunk  to  stand  himself,  or  to  make  others 
stand.  A  cart  is  absolutely  necessary  for 
him.  "  Robin  of  Bagshot,  alias  Gorgon,  alias 
Bob  Bluff,  alias  Carbuncle,  alias  Bob  Booty." 

SCENE  IV 
PEACHUM,  MRS.  PEACHUM. 

Mrs.  Peach.  What  of  Bob  Booty,  husband? 
I  hope  nothing  bad  hath  betided  him?  You 
know,  my  dear,  he's  a  favorite  customer  of 
mine.  'Twas  he  made  me  a  present  of  this 
ring. 

Peach.  I  have  set  his  name  down  in  the 
black  list,  that's  all,  my  dear;  he  spends  his 
life  among  women,  and  as  soon  as  his  money 
is  gone,  one  or  other  of  the  ladies  will  hang 
him  for  the  reward,  and  there's  forty  pound 
lost  to  us  for  ever. 

Mrs.  Peach.  You  know,  my  dear,  I  never 
meddle  in  matters  of  death;  I  always  leave 
those  affairs  to  you.  Women  indeed  are 
bitter  bad  judges  in  these  cases,  for  they  are 
so  partial  to  the  brave,  that  they  think 
every  man  handsome  who  is  going  to  the 
camp  or  the  gallows. 

AIR  in — Cold  and  raw,  etc. 

If  any  wench  Venus's  girdle  wear, 

Though  she  be  never  so  ugly; 
Lilies  and   roses  will  quickly   appear, 

And  her  face  look  wond'rous  smugly. 
Beneath  the  left  ear  so  fit  but  a  cord, 

(A  rope  so  charming  a  zone  is!) 
The  youth  in  his  cart  hath  the  air  of  a  lord, 

And   we    cry,   There   dies   an   Adonis! 

But  really,  husband,  you  should  not  be  too 
hard-hearted,  for  you  never  had  a  finer, 
braver  set  of  men  than  at  present.  We  have 
not  had  a  murder  among  them  all,  these 
seven  months.  And  truly,  my  dear,  that  is  a 
great  blessing. 

Peach.  What  a  dickens  is  the  woman 
always  a-whimp'ring  about  murder  for?  No 
gentleman  is  ever  looked  upon  the  worse  for 
killing  a  man  in  his  own  defence;  and  if 
business  cannot  be  carried  on  without  it, 
what  would  you  have  a  gentleman  do? 

Mrs.  Peach.  If  I  am  in  the  wrong,  my 
dear,  you  must  excuse  me,  for  nobody  can 
help  the  frailty  of  an  over-scrupulous  con- 
science. 


268 


THE  BEGGAR'S  OPERA 


ACT  I,  Sc.  VI. 


Peach.  Murder  is  as  fashionable  a  crime 
as  a  man  can  be  guilty  of.  How  many  fine 
gentlemen  have  we  in  Newgate  every  year, 
purely  upon  that  article!  If  they  have 
wherewithal  to  persuade  the  jury  to  bring 
it  in  manslaughter,  what  are  they  the  worse 
for  it?  So,  my  dear,  have  done  upon  this 
subject.  Was  Captain  Macheath  here  this 
morning,  for  the  bank-notes  he  left  with 
you  last  week? 

Mrs.  Peach.  Yes,  my  dear;  and  though  the 
bank  has  stopt  payment,  he  was  so  cheerful 
and  so  agreeable!  Sure  there  is  not  a  finer 
gentleman  upon  the  road  than  the  captain! 


hour  he  hath  promised  to  make  one  with 
Polly  and  me,  and  Bob  Booty,  at  a  party  of 
quadrille.  Pray,  my  dear,  is  the  captain 
rich? 

Peach.  The  captain  keeps  too  good  com- 
pany ever  to  grow  rich.  Marybone  and  the 
chocolate-houses  are  his  undoing.  The  man 
that  proposes  to  get  money  by  play  should 
have  the  education  of  a  fine  gentleman,  and 
be  trained  up  to  it  from  his  youth. 

Mrs.  Peach.  Really,  I  am  sorry  upon 
Polly's  account  the  captain  hath  not  more 
discretion.  What  business  hath  he  to  keep 
company  with  lords  and  gentlemen?  he  should 
leave  them  to  prey  upon  one  another. 

Peach.  Upon  Polly's  account!  What,  a 

plague,  does  the  woman  mean? Upon 

Polly's  account! 

Mrs.  Peach.  Captain  Macheath  is  very  fond 
of  the  girl. 

Peach.     And  what  then? 

Mrs.  Peach.  If  I  have  any  skill  in  the 
ways  of  women,  I  am  sure  Polly  thinks  him  a 
very  pretty  man. 

Peach.  And  what  then?  You  would  not 
be  so  mad  to  have  the  wench  marry  him ! 
Gamesters  and  highwaymen  are  generally 
very  good  to  their  whores,  but  they  are  very 
devils  to  their  wives. 

Mrs.  Peach.  But  if  Polly  should  be  in  love, 
how  should  we  help  her,  or  how  can  she  help 
herself?  Poor  girl,  I  am  in  the  utmost  con- 
cern about  her. 

AIR  iv — Why  is  your  faithful  slave  disdained? 
etc. 

If  love  the  virgin's  heart  invade, 
How,   like  a  moth,  the  simple  maid 

Still  plays  about  the  flame! 
If  soon  she  be  not  made  a  wife, 
Her     honor's     singed,    and    then,     for    life, 

She's what  I  dare  not  name. 

Peach.  Look  ye,  wife.  A  handsome  wench 
in  our  way  of  business  is  as  profitable  as  at 
the  bar  of  a  Temple  coffee-house,  who  looks 
upon  it  as  her  livelihood  to  grant  every  lib- 
erty but  one.  You  see  I  would  indulge  the 
girl  as  far  as  prudently  we  can — in  any  thing 


but  marriage!  After  that,  my  dear,  how 
shall  we  be  safe?  Are  we  not  then  in  her 
husband's  power?  For  a  husband  hath  the 
absolute  power  over  all  a  wife's  secrets  but 
her  own.  If  the  girl  had  the  discretion  of  a 
court  lady,  who  can  have  a  dozen  young 
fellows  at  her  ear  without  complying  with 
one,  I  should  not  matter  it;  but  Polly  is 
tinder,  and  a  spark  will  at  once  set  her  on 
a  flame.  Married!  If  the  wench  does  not 
know  her  own  profit,  sure  she  knows  her 
own  pleasure  better  than  to  make  herself  a 
property!  My  daughter  to  me  should  be, 
like  a  court  lady  to  a  minister  of  state,  a 
key  to  the  whole  gang.  Married!  if  the  af- 
fair is  not  already  done,  I'll  terrify  her  from 
it,  by  the  example  of  our  neighbors. 

Mrs.  Peach.  Mayhap,  my  dear,  you  may 
injure  the  girl.  She  loves  to  imitate  the  fine 
ladies,  and  she  may  only  allow  the  captain 
liberties  in  the  view  of  interest. 

Peach.  But  'tis  your  duty,  my  dear,  to 
warn  the  girl  against  her  ruin,  and  to  in- 
struct her  how  to  make  the  most  of  her 
beauty.  I'll  go  to  her  this  moment,  and  sift 
her.  In  the  meantime,  wife,  rip  out  the 
coronets  and  marks  of  these  dozen  of  cambric 
handkerchiefs,  for  I  can  dispose  of  them  this 
afternoon  to  a  chap  in  the  city. 

SCENE  V 
MRS.  PEACHUM. 

Mrs.  Peach.  Never  was  a  man  more  out 
of  the  way  in  an  argument  than  my  husband! 
Why  must  our  Polly,  forsooth,  differ  from 
her  sex,  and  love  only  her  husband?  And 
why  must  Polly's  marriage,  contrary  to  all 
observation,  make  her  the  less  followed  by 
other  men  ?  AH  men  are  thieves  in  love,  and 
like  a  woman  the  better  for  being  another's 
property. 

AIR  v — Of  all  the  simple  things  we  do,  etc. 
A  maid  is  like  the  golden  ore, 

Which   hath    guineas   intrinsical    in't 
Whose  worth  is  never  known,  before 

It  is  tried  and  imprest  in  the  mint. 
A  wife's  like  a  guinea  in  gold, 

Stampt  with  the  name  of  her  spouse; 
Now  here,   now  there;   is  bought,   or  is  sold; 

And  is  current  in  every  house. 

SCENE  VI 

MRS.    PEACHUM,    FILCH. 

Mrs.  Peach.  Come  hither,  Filch.  I  am  as 
fond  of  this  child,  as  though  my  mind  mis- 
gave me  he  were  my  own.  He  hath  as  fine 
a  hand  at  picking  a  pocket  as  a  woman,  and 
is  as  nimble-fingered  as  a  juggler.  If  an 
unlucky  session  does  not  cut  the  rope  of  thy 
life,  I  pronounce,  boy,  thou  wilt  be  a  great 
man  in  history.  Where  was  your  post  last 
night,  my  boy? 


269 


ACT  I,  Sc.  VIII. 


THE  BEGGAR'S  OPERA 


Filch.  I  plied  at  the  opera,  madam;  and 
considering  'twas  neither  dark  nor  rainy,  so 
that  there  was  no  great  hurry  in  getting 
chairs  and  coaches,  made  a  tolerable  hand 
on't.  These  seven  handkerchiefs,  madam. 

Mrs.  Peach.  Colored  ones,  I  see.  They 
are  of  sure  sale  from  our  warehouse  at  Red- 
riff  among  the  seamen. 

Fitch.     And  this  snuff-box. 

Mrs.  Peach.  Set  in  gold!  A  pretty  en- 
couragement this  to  a  young  beginner. 

Filch.  I  had  a  fair  tug  at  a  charming  gold 
watch.  Pox  take  the  tailors  for  making  the 
fobs  so  deep  and  narrow!  It  stuck  by  the 
way,  and  I  was  forced  to  make  my  escape 
under  a  coach.  Really,  madam,  I  fear,  I 
shall  be  cut  off  in  the  flower  of  my  youth,  so 
that  every  now  and  then  (since  I  was  pumpt) 
I  have  thoughts  of  taking  up  and  going  to 
sea. 

Mrs.  Peach.  You  should  go  to  Hockley  in 
the  Hole  and  to  Marybone,  child,  to  learn 
valor.  These  are  the  schools  that  have 
bred  so  many  brave  men.  I  thought,  boy,  by 
this  time,  thou  hadst  lost  fear  as  well  as 
shame.  Poor  lad!  how  little  does  he  know  as 
yet  of  the  Old  Bailey!  For  the  first  fact  I'll 
insure  thee  from  being  hanged;  and  going  to 
sea,  Filch,  will  come  time  enough  upon  a 
sentence  of  transportation.  But  now,  since 
you  have  nothing  better  to  do,  ev'n  go  to 
your  book,  and  learn  your  catechism;  for 
really  a  man  makes  but  an  ill  figure  in  the 
ordinary's  paper,  who  cannot  give  a  satis- 
factory answer  to  his  questions.  But,  hark 
you,  my  lad.  Don't  tell  me  a  lie;  for  you 
know  I  hate  a  liar.  Do  you  know  of  anything 
that  hath  past  between  Captain  Macheath 
and  our  Polly? 

Filch.  I  beg  you,  madam,  don't  ask  me; 
for  I  must  either  tell  a  lie  to  you  or  to  Miss 
Polly;  for  I  promised  her  I  would  not  tell. 

Mrs.  Peach.  But  when  the  honor  of  our 
family  is  concerned — 

Filch.  I  shall  lead  a  sad  life  with  Miss 
Polly,  if  ever  she  come  to  know  that  I  told 
you.  Besides,  I  would  not  willingly  forfeit 
my  own  honor  by  betraying  anybody. 

Mrs.  Peach.  Yonder  comes  my  husband 
and  Polly.  Come,  Filch,  you  shall  go  with 
me  into  my  own  room,  and  tell  me  the  whole 
story.  I'll  give  thee  a  most  delicious  glass 
of  a  cordial  that  I  keep  for  my  own  drinking. 


SCENE  VII 
PEACHUM,  POLLY. 

Polly.  I  know  as  well  as  any  of  the  fine 
ladies  how  to  make  the  most  of  myself  and 
of  my  man  too.  A  woman  knows  how  to  be 
mercenary,  though  she  hath  never  been  in  a 
court  or  at  an  assembly.  We  have  it  in  our 
natures,  papa.  If  I  allow  Captain  Macheath 
some  trifling  liberties,  I  have  this  watch  and 

270 


other  visible  marks  of  his  favor  to  show 
for  it.  A  girl  who  cannot  grant  some  things, 
and  refuse  what  is  most  material,  will  make 
but  a  poor  hand  of  her  beauty,  and  soon  be 
thrown  upon  the  common. 

AIR  vi — What  shall  I  do  to  show  how  much  I 
love  her,  etc. 

Virgins  are  like  the  fair  flower  in  its  lustre, 

Which  in  the  garden  enamels  the   ground; 

Near  it  the  bees  in  play  flutter  and  cluster, 

And  gaudy  butterflies  frolic  around. 
But,   when   once   plucked,   'tis    no   longer   al- 
luring, 

To  Covent-garden  'tis  sent,  (as  yet  sweet), 
There  fades,  and  shrinks,  and  grows  past  all 

enduring, 

Rots,   stinks,   and  dies,   and   is  trod   under 
feet. 

Peach.  You  know,  Polly,  I  am  not  against 
your  toying  and  trifling  with  a  customer  in 
the  way  of  business,  or  to  get  out  a  secret, 
or  so.  But  if  I  find  out  that  you  have  played 
the  fool  and  are  married,  you  jade  you,  I'll 
cut  your  throat,  hussy.  Now  you  know  my 
mind. 

SCENE  VIII 

PEACHUM,  POLLY,  MRS.  PEACHUM. 

AIR  vii — Oh  London  is  a  fine  town. 

MRS.  PEACHUM  in  a  very  great  passion. 

Our  Polly  is  a  sad  slut!  nor  heeds  what  we 

taught  her. 
I    wonder   any    man    alive    will    ever    rear    a 

daughter! 
For   she   must   have  both   hoods   and   gowns, 

and  hoops  to  swell  her  pride, 
With  scarfs  and  stays,  and  gloves  and  lace; 

and   she  will  have   men   beside; 
And  when  she's  dressed  with  care  and  cost, 

all-tempting  fine   and   gay, 
As  men  should  serve  a  cucumber,  she  flings 

herself  away. 
Our  Polly  is  a  sad  slut,  etc. 

You  baggage,  you  hussy!  you  inconsiderate 
jade!  had  you  been  hanged,  it  would  not  have 
vexed  me,  for  that  might  have  been  your 
misfortune;  but  to  do  such  a  mad  thing  by 
choice !  The  wench  is  married,  husband. 

Peach.  Married!  The  captain  is  a  bold 
man,  and  will  risk  anything  for  money;  to  be 
sure  he  believes  her  a  fortune.  Do  you  think 
your  mother  and  I  should  have  lived  com- 
fortably so  long  together,  if  ever  we  had  been 
married?  Baggage! 

Mrs.  Peach.  1  knew  she  was  always  a 
proud  slut;  and  now  the  wench  has  played 
the  fool  and  married,  because  forsooth  she 
would  do  like  the  gentry.  Can  you  support 
the  expense  of  a  husband,  hussy,  in  gaming, 


THE  BEGGAR'S  OPERA 


ACT  I,  Sc.  VIII. 


drinking  and  whoring?  have  you  money 
enough  to  carry  on  the  daily  quarrels  of 
man  and  wife  about  who  shall  squander 
most?  There  are  not  many  husbands  and 
wives,  who  can  bear  the  charges  of  plaguing 
one  another  in  a  handsome  way.  If  you  must 
be  married,  could  you  introduce  nobody  into 
our  family  but  a  highwayman?  Why,  thou 
foolish  jade,  thou  wilt  be  as  ill  used,  and  as 
much  neglected,  as  if  thou  had'st  married 
a  lord! 

Peach.  Let  not  your  anger,  my  dear,  break 
through  the  rules  of  decency,  for  the  captain 
looks  upon  himself  in  the  military  capacity, 
as  a  gentleman  by  his  profession.  Besides 
what  he  hath  already,  I  know  he  is  in  a  fair 
way  of  getting,  or  of  dying;  and  both  these 
ways,  let  me  tell  you,  are  most  excellent 
chances  for  a  wife.  Tell  me,  hussy,  are  you 
ruined  or  no? 

Mrs.  Peach.  With  Polly's  fortune,  she 
might  very  well  have  gone  off  to  a  person  of 
distinction.  Yes,  that  you  might,  you  pout- 
ing slut! 

Peach.  What,  is  the  wench  dumb?  Speak, 
or  I'll  make  you  plead  by  squeezing  out  an 
answer  from  you.  Are  you  really  bound  wife 
to  him,  or  are  you  only  upon  liking? 

[Pinches  her. 

Polly.     Oh !  [Screaming. 

Mrs.  Peach.  How  the  mother  is  to  be 
pitied  who  hath  handsome  daughters!  Locks, 
bolts,  bars,  and  lectures  of  morality  are 
nothing  to  them;  they  break  through  them 
all.  They  have  as  much  pleasure  in  cheat- 
ing a  father  and  mother,  as  in  cheating  at 
cards. 

Peach.  Why,  Polly,  I  shall  soon  know  if 
you  are  married,  by  Macheath's  keeping  from 
our  house. 

AIR  viii — Grim  king  of  the  ghosts,  etc. 

Polly. 
Can   love   be   controll'd   by  advice? 

Will  Cupid  our  mothers  obey? 
Though  my  heart  were  as  frozen  as  ice, 

At  his  flame  'twould  have  melted  away. 

When  he  kiss'd  me  so  closely   he  prest, 
'Twas  so  sweet  that  I  must  have  complied: 

So  I   thought  it  both  safest  and  best 
To  marry,  for  fear  you  should  chide. 

Mrs.  Peach.  Then  all  the  hopes  of  our 
family  are  gone  for  ever  and  ever! 

Peach.  And  Macheath  may  hang  his  father 
and  mother-in-law,  in  hope  to  get  into  their 
daughter's  fortune. 

Polly.  I  did  not  marry  him  (as  'tis  the 
fashion)  coolly  and  deliberately  for  honor  or 
money.  But,  I  love  him. 

Mrs.  Peach.  Love  him!  worse  and  worse! 
I  thought  the  girl  had  been  better  bred.  O 
husband,  husband!  her  folly  makes  me  mad! 


my    head    swims!      I'm    distracted!      I    can't 
support  myself Oh!  [Faints. 

Peach.  See,  wench,  to  what  a  condition 
you  have  reduced  your  poor  mother!  a  glass 
of  cordial,  this  instant.  How  the  poor  woman 
takes  it  to  heart! 

[POLLY  goes  out  and  returns  with  it, 
Ah,  hussy,  now  this,  is  the  only  comfort  your 
mother  has  left! 

Polly.  Give  her  another  glass,  Sir;  my 
mama  drinks  double  the  quantity  whenever 
she  is  out  of  order.  This,  you  cee,  fetches 
her. 

Mrs.  Peach.  The  girl  shows  such  a  readi- 
ness, and  so  much  concern,  that  I  could  al- 
most find  in  my  heart  to  forgive  her. 

AIR    ix — O   Jenny,    O   Jenny,   where   hast   thou 
been. 

O    Polly,    you   might   have    toy'd   and    kiss'd; 
By  keeping  men  off,  you  keep  them  on. 

Polly. 

But  he  so  teas'd  me, 
And  he  so  pleas'd  me, 
What  I  did,  you  must  have  done — 

Mrs.  Peach.  Not  with  a  highwayman.  .  .  . 
You  sorry  slut! 

Peach.  A  word  with  you,  wife.  'Tis  no 
new  thing  for  a  wench  to  take  a  man  with- 
out consent  of  parents.  You  know  'tis  the 
frailty  of  woman,  my  dear. 

Mrs.  Peach.  Yes,  indeed,  the  sex  is  frail. 
But  the  first  time  a  woman  is  frail,  she 
should  be  somewhat  nice,  methinks,  for  then 
or  never  is  the  time  to  make  her  fortune. 
After  that,  she  hath  nothing  to  do  but  to 
guard  herself  from  being  found  out,  and  she 
may  do  what  she  pleases. 

Peach.  Make  yourself  a  little  easy;  I  have 
a  thought  shall  soon  set  all  matters  again 
to  rights.  Why  so  melancholy,  Polly?  since 
what  is  done  cannot  be  undone,  we  must  all 
endeavor  to  make  the  best  of  it. 

Mrs.  Peach.  Well,  Polly;  as  far  as  one 
woman  can  forgive  another,  I  forgive  thee. — 
Your  father  is  too  fond  of  you,  hussy. 

Polly.     Then  all  my  sorrows  are  at  an  end. 

Mrs.  Peach.  A  mighty  likely  speech  in 
troth,  for  a  wench  who  is  just  married. 

AIR  x — Thomas,   1   cannot,   etc. 

Polly. 

I,  like  a  ship  in  storms,  was  tost; 

Yet  afraid  to  put  into  land; 
For,   seiz'd  in   the  port,  the  vessel's  lost, 
Whose   treasure  is  contraband. 
The  waves  are  laid, 
My  duty's  paid, 
Oh  joy  beyond  expression! 
Thus,  safe  ashore, 
I  ask  no  more, 
My  all  is  in  my  possession. 


271 


ACT  I,  Sc.  X.  ' 


THE  BEGGAR'S  OPERA 


Peach.  I  hear  customers  in  t'other  room. 
Go,  talk  with  'em,  Polly;  but  come  to  us 
again,  as  soon  as  they  are  gone.— But,  heark 
ye,  child,  if  'tis  the  gentleman  who  was  here 
yesterday  about  the  repeating  watch;  say, 
you  believe,  we  can't  get  intelligence  of  it, 
till  to-morrow.  For  I  lent  it  to  Suky  Strad- 
dle, to  make  a  figure  with  it  to-night  at  a 
tavern  in  Drury  Lane.  If  t'other  gentleman 
calls  for  the  silver-hilled  sword;  you  know 
beetle-brow'd  Jemmy  hath  it  on,  and  he  doth 
not  come  from  Tunbridge  till  Tuesday  night; 
so  that  it  cannot  be  had  till  then. 

SCENE   IX 
PEACHUM,  MRS.  PEACHUM. 

Peach.  Dear  wife,  be  a  little  pacified. 
Don't  let  your  passion  run  away  with  your 
senses.  Polly,  I  grant  you,  hath  done  a 
rash  thing. 

Mrs.  Peach.  If  she  had  had  only  an 
intrigue  with  the  fellow,  why  the  very  best 
families  have  excused  and  huddled  up  a 
frailty  of  that  sort.  'Tis  marriage,  husband, 
that  makes  it  a  blemish. 

Peach.  But  money,  wife,  is  the  true  fuller's 
earth  for  reputations,  there  is  not  a  spot  or 
a  stain  but  what  it  can  take  out.  A  rich 
rogue  now-a-days  is  fit  company  for  any 
gentleman;  and  the  world,  my  dear,  hath  not 
such  a  contempt  for  roguery  as  you  imagine. 
I  tell  you,  wife,  I  can  make  this  match  turn 
to  our  advantage. 

Mrs.  Peach.  I  am  very  sensible,  husband, 
that  Captain  Macheath  is  worth  money,  but 
I  am  in  doubt  whether  he  hath  not  two 
or  three  wives  already,  and  then  if  he  should 
die  in  a  session  or  two,  Polly's  dower  would 
come  into  dispute. 

Peach.  That,  indeed,  is  a  point  which 
ought  to  be  considered. 

AIR   xi — A  soldier  and  a  sailor. 
A  fox  may  steal  your  hens,  Sir, 
A  whore  your  health  and  pence,  Sir, 
Your   daughter    rob    your    chest,   Sir, 
Your  wife  may   steal   your  rest,  Sir, 

A   thief   your   goods   and  plate. 
But   this  is   all  but  picking; 
With  rest,  pence,  chest,  and  chicken; 
It  ever  was  decreed,  Sir, 
If  lawyer's  hand  is  fee'd,  Sir, 

He  steals  your  whole  estate. 

The  lawyers  are  bitter  enemies  to  those  in 
our  way.  They  don't  care  that  anybody 
should  get  a  clandestine  livelihood  but  them- 
selves. 

SCENE  X 
MRS.    PEACHUM,   PEACHUM,   POLLY. 

Polly.  'Twas  only  Nimming  Ned.  He 
brought  in  a  damask  window-curtain,  a  hoop 


petticoat,  a  pair  of  silver  candlesticks,  a 
periwig,  and  one  silk  stocking,  from  the  fire 
that  happened  last  night. 

Peach.  There  is  not  a  fellow  that  is  clev- 
erer in  his  way,  and  saves  more  goods  out 
of  fire  than  Ned.  But  now,  Polly,  to  your 
affair;  for  matters  must  not  be  left  as  they 
are.  You  are  married  then,  it  seems? 

Polly.    Yes,  Sir. 

Peach.  And  how  do  you  propose  to  live, 
child? 

Polly.  Like  other  women,  Sir,  upon  the 
industry  of  my  husband. 

Mrs.  Peach.  What,  is  the  wench  turned 
fool?  A  highwayman's  wife,  like  a  soldier's, 
hath  as  little  of  his  pay  as  of  his  company. 

Peach.  And  had  not  you  the  common  views 
of  a  gentlewoman  in  your  marriage,  Polly? 

Polly.     I  don't  know  what  you  mean,  Sir. 

Peach.  Of  a  jointure,  and  of  being  a 
widow. 

Polly.  But  I  love  him,  Sir:  how  then  could 
I  have  thoughts  of  parting  with  him? 

Peach.  Parting  with  him!  Why,  that  is 
the  whole  scheme  and  intention  of  all  mar- 
riage articles.  The  comfortable  estate  of 
widowhood  is  the  only  hope  that  keeps  up  a 
wife's  spirits.  Where  is  the  woman  who 
would  scruple  to  be  a  wife,  if  she  had  it  in 
her  power  to  be  a  widow  whenever  she 
pleased?  If  you  have  any  views  of  this  sort, 
Polly,  I  shall  think  the  match  not  so  very 
unreasonable. 

Polly.  How  I  dread  to  hear  your  advice! 
Yet  I  must  beg  you  to  explain  yourself. 

Peach.  Secure  what  he  hath  got,  have  him 
peached  the  next  sessions,  and  then  at  once 
you  are  made  a  rich  widow. 

Polly.  What,  murder  the  man  I  love!  The 
blood  runs  cold  at  my  heart  at  the  very 
thought  of  it. 

Peach.  Fie,  Polly!  What  hath  murder  to 
do  in  the  affair?  Since  the  thing  sooner  or 
later  must  happen,  I  dare  say,  the  captain 
himself  would  like  that  we  should  get  the 
reward  for  his  death  sooner  than  a  stranger. 
Why,  Polly,  the  captain  knows,  that  as  'tis 
bis  employment  to  rob,  so  'tis  ours  to  take 
robbers;  every  man  in  his  business.  So 
that  there  is  no  malice  in  the  case. 

Mrs.  Peach.  Ay,  husband,  now  you  have 
nicked  the  matter.  To  have  him  peached  is 
the  only  thing  could  ever  make  me  forgive 
her. 

AIR    xii — Now   ponder    well,    ye    parents    dear. 

Polly. 
Oh,  ponder  well!  be  not  severe; 

So  save  a  wretched  wife! 
For  on   the  rope  that  hangs  my  dear 

Depends  poor  Polly's  life. 

Mrs.  Peach.  But  your  duty  to  your  par- 
ents, hussy,  obliges  you  to  hang  him.  What 


272 


THE  BEGGAR'S  OPERA 


ACT  I,  Sc.  XIII. 


would   many  a  wife  give  for  such  an  oppor- 
tunity ! 

Polly.  What  is  a  jointure,  what  is  a  widow- 
hood to  me?  I  know  my  heart.  I  cannot 
survive  him. 

AIR  xiii — Le  printemps  rappelle  aux  armes. 
The  turtle  thus  with  plaintive  crying, 

Her  lover  dying, 
The  turtle  thus  with  plaintive  crying, 

Laments  her  dove. 

Down    she    drops,    quite    spent   with    sighing. 
Pair'd  in  death,  as  pair'd  in  love. 

Thus,  Sir,  it  will  happen  to  your  poor  Polly. 

Mrs.  Peach.  What,  is  the  fool  in  love  in 
earnest  then?  I  hate  thee  for  being  particu- 
lar. Why,  wench,  thou  art  a  shame  to  thy 
very  sex. 

Polly.  But  hear  me,  mother, — if  you  ever 
loved — 

Mrs.  Peach.  Those  cursed  play-books  she 
reads  have  been  her  ruin.  One  word  more, 
hussy,  and  I  shall  knock  your  brains  out, 
if  you  have  any. 

Peach.  Keep  out  of  the  way,  Polly,  for 
fear  of  mischief,  and  consider  of  what  is 
proposed  to  you. 

Mrs.  Peach.  Away,  hussy.  Hang  your 
husband,  and  be  dutiful. 


SCENE  XI 

MRS.    PEACHUM,    PEACHUM. 

[POLLY    listening. 

Mrs.  Peach.  The  thing,  husband,  must  and 
shall  be  done.  For  the  sake  of  intelligence 
we  must  take  other  measures,  and  have  him 
peached  the  next  session  without  her  consent. 
If  she  will  not  know  her  duty,  we  know  ours. 

Peach.  But  really,  my  dear,  it  grieves 
one's  heart  to  take  off  a  great  man.  When 
I  consider  his  personal  bravery,  his  fine 
stratagem,  how  much  we  have  already  got 
by  him,  and  how  much  more  we  may  get, 
methinks  I  can't  find  in  my  heart  to  have 
a  hand  in  his  death.  I  wish  you  could 
have  made  Polly  undertake  it. 

Mrs.  Peach.  But  in  a  case  of  necessity — 
our  own  lives  are  in  danger. 

Peach.  Then,  indeed,  we  must  comply  with 
the  customs  of  the  world,  and  make  grati- 
tude give  way  to  interest.  He  shall  be  taken 
off. 

Mrs.  Peach.  I'll  undertake  to  manage 
Polly. 

Peach.  And  I'll  prepare  matters  for  the 
Old  Bailey. 

SCENE    XII 
POLLY. 

Now  I'm  a  wretch,  indeed— methinks  I 
see  him  already  in  the  cart,  sweeter  and 


more    Ipvely   than   the   nosegay   in    his   hand! 


— I  hear  the  crowd  extolling  his  resolution 
and  intrepidity !— What  volleys  of  sighs  are 
sent  from  the  windows  of  Holborn,  that  so 
comely  a  youth  should  be  brought  to  dis- 
grace!—I  see  him  at  the  tree!  The  whole 
circle  are  in  tears!— even  butchers  weep! — 
Jack  Ketch  himself  hesitates  to  perform  his. 
duty,  and  would.be  glad  to  lose  his  fee,  by  a 
reprieve.  What  then  will  become  of  Polly? 
As  yet  I  may  inform  him  of  their  design,  and 
aid  him  in  his  escape.  It  shall  be  so.  But 
then  he  flies,  absents  himself,  and  I  bar 
myself  from  his  dear,  dear  conversation! 
That  too  will  distract  me.  If  he  keep  out 
of  the  way,  my  papa  and  mama  may  in 
time  relent,  and  we  may  be  happy.  If  he 
stays,  he  is  hanged,  and  then  he  is  lost 
for  ever!  He  intended  to  lie  concealed  in 
my  room,  till  the  dusk  of  the  evening. 
If  they  are  abroad,  I'll  this  instant  let  him 
out,  lest  some  accident  should  prevent  him. 
[Exit,  and  returns. 

SCENE   XIII 
POLLY,    MACHEATH. 
AIR  xiv — Pretty  Parrot,  say. 
Mach. 

Pretty  Polly,  say, 
When  I  was  away, 
Did   your   fancy   never   stray 
To   some    newer   lover? 

Without    disguise, 
Heaving   sighs, 
Doating   eyes, 
My   constant   heart   discover. 

Fondly    let    me    loll? 
Mach. 

O  pretty,  pretty  Poll. 

Polly.  And  are  you  as  fond  as  ever,  my 
dear? 

Mach.  Suspect  my  honor,  my  courage, 
suspect  any  thing  but  my  love.  May  my 
pistols  miss  fire,  and  my  mare  slip  her 
shoulder  while  I  am  pursued,  if  I  ever  for- 
sake thee! 

Polly.  Nay,  my  dear,  I  have  no  reason 
to  doubt  you,  for  I  find  in  the  romance  you 
lent  me,  none  of  the  great  heroes  were  ever 
false  in  love. 

AIR  xv — Pray,  fair  one,  be  kind. 
Mach. 

My   heart  was   so   free, 

It   rov'd   like  the  bee, 
Till    Polly   my   passion    requited; 

I   sipt   each   flower, 

I    chang'd    ev'ry   hour, 
But  here  ev'ry  flower  is  united. 

Polly.  Were  you  sentenced  to  transporta- 
tion, sure,  my  dear,  you  could  not  leave  me 
behind  you — could  you? 


Polly. 


273 


ACT  II,  Sc.  I. 


THE  BEGGAR'S  OPERA 


Mach.  Is  there  any  power,  any  force  that 
could  tear  me  from  thee?  You  might  sooner 
tear  a  pension  out  of  the  hands  of  a  courtier, 
a  fee  from  a  lawyer,  a  pretty  woman  from  a 
looking  glass,  or  any  woman  from  quadrille. 
But  to  tear  me  from  thee  is  impossible! 

AIR  xvi — Over  the  hills  and  far  away. 
Were  I  laid  on  Greenland's  coast, 
And  in  my  arms  embrac'd  my  lass: 
Warm    amidst    eternal    frost, 
Too  soon   the  half   year's  night   would  pass. 

Polly. 

Were  I  sold  on  Indian  soil, 
Soon   as    the  burning   day   was   clos'd, 
I   could   mock   the   sultry   toil, 
When  on   my   charmer's   breast   repos'd. 
Mach.     And  I  would  love  you  all  the  day, 
Polly.     Every   night   would   kiss   and  play, 
Mach.     If   with   me   you'd   fondly    stray 
Polly.     Over  the  hills  and  far  away. 
Polly.     Yes,    I    would    go    with    thee.    But 

oh ! how  shall  I  speak  it  ?    I  must  be  torn 

from  thee.    We  must  part. 
Mach.     How!    Part! 

Polly.  We  must,  we  must.  My  papa  and 
mama  are  set  against  thy  life.  They  now, 
even  now  are  in  search  after  thee.  They  are 
preparing  evidence  against  thee.  Thy  life 
depends  upon  a  moment. 

AIR  xvii — Gin   thou  wert  mine  awn  thing. 
Oh   what  pain   it  is   to  part! 
Can  I  leave  thee,  can  I  leave  thee? 
Oh   what  pain   it  is   to  part! 
Can    thy    Polly    ever   leave    thee? 
But    lest    death    my    love    should    thwart, 
And    bring    thee    to   the    fatal   cart, 
Thus   I    tear    thee    from   my   bleeding   heart! 
Fly  hence,    and  let   me  leave   thee. 

One      kiss      and      then — one      kiss— begone — 
farewell. 

Mach.  My  hand,  my  heart,  my  dear,  is  so 
riveted  to  thine,  that  I  cannot  unloose  my 
hold. 

Polly.  But  my  papa  may  intercept  thee, 
and  then  I  should  lose  the  very  glimmering 
of  hope.  A  few  weeks,  perhaps,  may  recon- 
cile us  all.  Shall  thy  Polly  hear  from  thee? 

Mach.     Must    I    then    go? 

Polly.  And  will  not  absence  change  your 
love? 

Mach.  If  you  doubt  it,  let  me  stay — 
and  be  hanged. 

Polly.  Oh  how  I  fear!  how  I  tremble!— 
Go — but  when  safety  will  give  you  leave,  you 
will  be  sure  to  see  me  again;  for  till  then 
Polly  is  wretched. 

AIR   xvin — Oh  the   broom,   etc. 

Mach. 

The  miser  thus   a   shilling  sees, 
Which    he's    oblig'd    to   pay, 


With  sighs  resigns  it  by  degrees, 
And  fears  'tis  gone  for  aye. 

{.Parting,    and   looking   back    at   each    other 
with  fondness;  he  at  one  door,   she  at 
the  other. 
Polly. 
The    boy,    thus,    when    his    sparrow's    flown, 

The  bird  in   silence  eyes; 
But  soon  as  out  of  sight  'tis  gone, 
Whines,   whimpers,   sobs   and  cries. 

ACT    II 

SCENE  I 
A  TAVERN  NEAR  NEWGATE. 

JEMMY  TWITCHER,  Crook-finger' d  JACK,  WAT 
DREARY,  ROBIN  of  BAGSHOT,  NIMMING  NED, 
HENRY  PADINGTON,  MATT  of  the  MINT,  BEN 
BUDGE,  and  the  rest  of  the  gang,  at  the  table, 
with  wine,  brandy  and  tobacco. 

Ben.  But  pr'ythee,  Matt,  what  is  become 
of  thy  brother  Tom?  I  have  not  seen  him 
since  my  return  from  transportation. 

Matt.  Poor  brother  Tom  had  an  accident 
this  time  twelve-month,  and  so  clever  a 
made  fellow  he  was,  that  I  could  not  save 
him  from  those  flaying  rascals  the  surgeons; 
and  now,  poor  man,  he  is  among  the  atomies 
at  Surgeons'  Hall. 

Ben.     So,   it   seems,   his   time  was   come. 

Jem.  But  the  present  time  is  ours,  and 
nobody  alive  hath  more.  Why  are  the  laws 
levelled  at  us?  Are  we  more  dishonest  than 
the  rest  of  mankind?  What  we  win,  gentle- 
men, is  our  own  by  the  law  of  arms,  and  the 
right  of  conquest. 

Crook.  Where  shall  we  find  such  another 
set  of  practical  philosophers,  who  to  a  man 
are  above  the  fear  of  death? 

Wat.     Sound  men,  and  true! 

Robin.  Of  tried  courage,  and  indefatigable 
industry ! 

Ned.  Who  is  there  here  that  would  not 
die  for  his  friend? 

Harry.  Who  is  there  here  that  would 
betray  him  for  his  interest? 

Matt.  Show  me  a  gang  of  courtiers  that 
can  say  as  much. 

Ben.  We  are  for  a  just  partition  of  the 
world,  for  every  man  hath  a  right  to  enjoy 
life. 

Matt.  We  retrench  the  superfluities  of 
mankind.  The  world  is  avaricious,  and  I 
hate  avarice.  A  covetous  fellow,  like  a 
jackdaw,  steals  what  he  was  never  made  to 
enjoy,  for  the  sake  of  hiding  it.  These  are 
the  robbers  of  mankind,  for  money  was  made 
for  the  free-hearted  and  generous;  and  where 
is  the  injury  of  taking  from  another,  what 
he  hath  not  the  heart  to  make  use  of! 

Jem.  Our  several  stations  for  the  day  are 
fixed.  Good  luck  attend  us.  Fill  the  glasses. 


274 


THE  BEGGAR'S  OPERA 


ACT  II,  Sc.  III. 


AIR  xix — Fill  ev'ry  glass,  etc. 
Matt. 
Fill  ev'ry  glass,  for  wine  inspires  us, 

And  fires  us, 

With   courage,   love   and   joy. 
Women   and   wine   should    life   employ. 
Is  there  ought  else  on  earth  desirous? 
Chorus. 

Fill  ev'ry  glass,  etc. 

SCENE  II 
To  them  enter  MACHEATH. 

Mach.  Gentlemen,  well  met.  My  heart 
hath  been  with  you  this  hour;  but  an  un- 
expected affair  hath  detained  me.  No  cere- 
mony, I  beg  you. 

Matt.  We  were  just  breaking  up  to  go 
upon  duty.  Am  I  to  have  the  honor  of 
taking  the  air  with  you,  Sir,  this  evening 
upon  the  heath?  I  drink  a  dram  now  and 
then  with  the  stage-coachmen  in  the  way  of 
friendship  and  intelligence,  and  I  know  that 
about  this  time  there  will  be  passengers 
upon  the  Western  Road,  who  are  worth 
speaking  with. 

Mach.  I  was  to  have  been  of  that  party 
— but— 

Matt.     But  what,  Sir? 

Mach.  Is  there  any  man  who  suspects 
my  courage? — 

Matt.     We  have  all  been  witnesses  of  it. — 

Mach.     My  honor  and  truth  to  the  gang? 

.'/;','.     I'll    be   answerable    for   it. 

Mach.  In  the  division  of  our  booty,  have 
I  ever  shown  the  least  marks  of  avarice  or 
injustice  ? 

Matt.  By  these  questions  something  seems 
to  have  ruffled  you.  Are  any  of  us  sus- 
pected? 

Mach.  I  have  a  fixed  confidence,  gentle- 
men, in  you  all,  as  men  of  honor,  and  as 
such  I  value  and  respect  you.  Peachum  is 
a  man  that  is  useful  to  us. 

Mutt.  Is  he  about  to  play  us  any  foul 
play  ?  I'll  shoot  him  through  the  head. 

Mach.  I  beg  you,  gentlemen,  act  with  con- 
duct and  discretion.  A  pistol  is  your  last 
resort. 

Matt.     He   knows  nothing  of   this   meeting. 

Mach.  Business  cannot  go  on  without 
him.  He  is  a  man  who  knows  the  world,  and 
is  a  necessary  agent  to  us.  We  have  had  a 
slight  difference,  and  till  it  is  accommodated 
I  shall  be  obliged  to  keep  out  of  his  way. 
Any  private  dispute  of  mine  shall  be  of  no 
ill  consequence  to  my  friends.  You  must 
continue  to  act  under  his  direction,  for  the 
moment  we  break  loose  from  him,  our  gang 
is  ruined. 

Matt.  As  a  bawd  to  a  whore,  I  grant  you, 
he  is  to  us  of  great  convenience. 

Mach.     Make    him   believe    I    have    quitted 


the  gang,  which  I  can  never  do  but  with 
life.  At  our  private  quarters  I  will  continue 
to  meet  you.  A  week  or  so  will  probably 
reconcile  us. 

Matt.  Your  instructions  shall  be  observed. 
'Tis  now  high  time  for  us  to  repair  to  our 
several  duties;  so  till  the  evening  at  our 
quarters  in  Moor-fields  we  bid  you  farewell. 

Mach.  I  shall  wish  myself  with  you.  Suc- 
cess attend  you. 

{Sits   down   melancholy   at  the  table. 

AIR    xx — March   in    Rinaldo,    with    drums   and 

trumpets. 
Matt. 

Let   us   take   the  road. 
Hark!    I    hear   the   sound  of   coaches! 
The    hour    of    attack   approaches, 
To  your  arms,   brave   boys,  and  load. 

See  the  ball  I  hold! 
Let  the  chymists  toil  like  asses, 
Our   fire    their  fire  surpasses, 

And   turns  all  our  lead  to   gold. 

[The  gang,  ranged  in  the  front  of  the  stage, 
load  their  pistols,  and  stick  them  under  their 
girdles;  then  go  off  singing  the  first  part  in 
chorus]. 


SCENE  III 
MACHEATH,  Drawer. 

Mach.  What  a  fool  is  a  fond  wench! 
Polly  is  most  confoundedly  bit — I  love  the 
sex.  And  a  man  who  loves  money,  might  be 
as  well  contented  with  one  guinea,  as  I  with 
one  woman.  The  town  perhaps  hath  been  as 
much  obliged  to  me,  for  recruiting  it  with 
free-hearted  ladies,  as  to  any  recruiting  offi- 
cer in  the  army.  If  it  were  not  for  us,  and 
the  other  gentlemen  of  the  sword,  Drury- 
Lane  would  be  uninhabited. 

AIR  xxi — Would  you  have  a  young  virgin,  etc. 

If  the  heart  of  a  man  is  deprest  with  cares, 
The  mist  is  dispell'd  when  a  woman  appears; 
Like  the  notes  of  a  fiddle,  she  sweetly, 

sweetly 

Raises   the  spirits,   and   charms  our  ears. 
Roses  and   lilies   her  cheeks  disclose, 
But  her  ripe  lips  are  more  sweet  than  those, 
Press    her, 
Caress  her 
With  blisses, 
Her  kisses 
Dissolve  us   in  pleasure,   and  soft  repose. 

I  muse  have  women.  There  is  nothing  un- 
bends the  mind  like  them.  Money  is  not  so 
strong  a  cordial  for  the  time.  Drawer. — 
[Enter  Drawer. ~\  Is  the  porter  gone  for  all 
the  ladies,  according  to  my  directions? 


275 


ACT  II,  Sc.  IV. 


THE  BEGGAR'S  OPERA 


Draw.  I  expect  him  back  every  minute. 
But  you  know,  Sir,  you  sent  him  as  far  as 
Hockley  in  the  Hole,  for  three  of  the  ladies, 
for  one  in  Vinegar  Yard,  and  for  the  rest  of 
them  somewhere  about  Lewkner's  Lane. 
Sure  some  of  them  are  below,  for  I  hear  the 
bar  bell.  As  they  come  I  will  show  them 
up.  Coming!  coming! 


SCENE  IV 

MACHEATH,  MRS.  COAXER,  DOLLY  TRULL, 
MRS.  VIXEN,  BETTY  DOXY,  JENNY  DIVER,  MRS. 
SLAMMEKIN,  SUKY  TAWDRY,  and  MOLLY 
BRAZEN. 


Mach.     Dear    Mrs.    Coaxer,    you    are 
come.    You   look   charmingly   to-day.    I 


wel- 
hope 


you  don't  want  the  repairs  of  quality,  and  lay 
on  paint.  Dolly  Trull !  kiss  me,  you  slut ;  are 
you  as  amorous  as  ever,  hussy?  You  are 
always  so  taken  up  with  stealing  hearts,  that 
you  don't  allow  yourself  time  to  steal  any- 
thing else.  Ah  Dolly,  thou  wilt  ever  be  a 
coquette.  Mrs.  Vixen,  I'm  yours,  I  always 
loved  a  woman  of  wit  and  spirit;  they  make 
charming  mistresses,  but  plaguy  wives. 
Betty  Doxy!  come  hither,  hussy.  Do  you 
drink  as  hard  as  ever?  You  had  better 
stick  to  good  wholesome  beer;  for  in  troth, 
Betty,  strong  waters  will,  in  time,  ruin  your 
constitution.  You  should  leave  those  to  your 
betters.  What!  and  my  pretty  Jenny  Diver 
too!  As  prim  and  demure  as  ever!  There 
is  not  any  prude,  though  ever  so  high  bred, 
hath  a  more  sanctified  look,  with  a  more 
mischievous  heart.  Ah!  thou  art  a  dear 
artful  hypocrite.  Mrs.  Slammekin!  as  care- 
less and  genteel  as  ever!  all  you  fine  ladies, 
who  know  your  own  beauty,  affect  an  un- 
dress, but  see,  here's  Suky  Tawdry  come  to 
contradict  what  I  was  saying.  Everything  she 
gets  one  way,  she  lays  out  upon  her  back. 
Why,  Suky,  you  must  keep  at  least  a  dozen 
tally-men.  Molly  Brazen!  [She  kisses  him.'] 
That's  well  done.  I  love  a  free-hearted 
wench.  Thou  hast  a  most  agreeable  assur- 
ance, girl,  and  art  as  willing  as  a  turtle. 
But  hark!  I  hear  music.  The  harper  is  at 
the  door.  If  music  be  the  food  of  lore,  play 
on.  Ere  you  seat  yourselves,  ladies,  what 
think  you  of  a  dance?  Come  in.  [Enter 
harper.']  Play  the  French  tune,  that  Mrs. 
Slammekin  was  so  fond  of. 

[A   dance  a  la  ronde  in   the   French  manner; 
near  the  end  of  it  this  song  and  chorus.] 

AIR    xxii — Cotillion. 

Youth's  the  season  made  for  joys, 

Love   is   then   our  duty; 
She  alone  who  that  employs, 

Well  deserves  her  beauty. 


Let's   be    gay, 
While  we  may, 
Beauty's  a  flower,   despis'd   in   decay. 

Youth's  the  season,  etc. 

Let   us    drink    and    sport    to-day, 

Ours    is    not    to-morrow. 
Lo/e   with   youth  flies   swift  away. 
Age    is    nought   but   sorrow. 
Dance    and    sing, 
Time's  on   the  wing, 

Life  never  knows   the  return  of  spring. 
Chorus. 

Let  us  drink,  etc. 

Mach.  Now,  pray  ladies,  take  your  places. 
Here,  fellow.  [Pays  the  harper.]  Bid  the 
drawer  bring  us  more  wine.  [Exit  harper.] 
If  any  of  the  ladies  choose  gin,  I  hope  they 
will  be  so  free  to  call  for  it. 

Jenny.  You  look  as  if  you  meant  me. 
Wine  is  strong  enough  for  me.  Indeed,  Sir, 
I  never  drink  strong  waters,  but  when  I  have 
the  colic. 

Mach.  Just  the  excuse  of  the  fine  ladies! 
Why,  a  lady  of  quality  is  never  without  the 
colic.  I  hope,  Mrs.  Coaxer,  you  have  had 
good  success  of  late  in  your  visits  among 
the  mercers. 

Coax.  We  have  so  many  interlopers.  Yet, 

little 
lute- 
string, and  a  piece  of  black  padesoy  to  Mr. 
Peachum's  lock  but  last  week. 

Vix.  There's  Molly  Brazen  hath  the  ogle 
of  a  rattlesnake.  She  riveted  a  linen- 
draper's  eye  so  fast  upon  her,  that  he  was 
nicked  of  three  pieces  of  cambric  before  he 
could  look  off. 

Braz.  Oh  dear  madam!  But  sure  noth- 
ing can  come  up  to  your  handling  of  laces ! 
And  then  you  have  such  a  sweet  deluding 
tongue!  To  cheat  a  man  is  nothing;  but  the 
woman  must  have  fine  parts  indeed  who 
cheats  a  woman ! 

Vix.  Lace,  madam,  lies  in  a  small  com- 
pass, and  is  of  easy  conveyance.  But  you 
are  apt,  madam,  to  think  too  well  of  your 
friends. 

Coax.  If  any  woman  hath  more  art  than 
another,  to  be  sure,  'tis  Jenny  Diver. 
Though  her  fellow  be  never  so  agreeable, 
she  can  pick  his  pocket  as  coolly  as  if 
money  were  her  only  pleasure.  Now  that 
is  a  command  of  the  passions  uncommon  in 
a  woman ! 

Jenny.  I  never  go  to  the  tavern  with  a 
man,  but  in  the  view  of  business.  I  have 
other  hours,  and  other  sort  of  men  for  my 
pleasure.  But  had  I  your  address,  madam 

Mach.  Have  done  with  your  compliments, 
ladies;  and  drink  about.  You  are  not  so 
fond  of  me,  Jenny,  as  you  use  to  be. 

Jenny.     'Tis   not   convenient,   Sir,    to   show 


with    industry,    one    may    still    have    a 
picking.    I     carried     a     silver-flowered 


276 


THE  BEGGAR'S  OPERA 


ACT  II,  So.  VI. 


my  kindness  among  so  many  rivals.  Tis 
your  own  choice,  and  not  the  warmth  of 
my  inclination  that  will  determine  you. 

AIR   xxni — All  in  a  misty  morning,  etc. 

Before  the  barn-door  crowing, 

The  cock  by  hens  attended, 
His  eyes  around  him  throwing, 

Stands  for  a  while  suspended. 

Then  one  he  singles  from  the  crew, 

And  cheers  the  happy  hen; 
With  how  do  you  do,  and  how  do  you  do, 

And  how   do  you  do   again. 

Mac/:.     Ah  Jenny!  thou  art  a  dear  slut. 

Trull.  Pray,  madam,  were  you  ever  in 
keeping? 

TawJ.  1  hope,  madam,  I  han't  been  so 
long  upon  the  town,  but  I  have  met  with 
some  good  fortune  as  well  as  my  neighbors. 

Trull.  Pardon  me,  madam,  I  meant  no 
harm  by  the  question;  'twas  only  in  the  way 
of  conversation. 

Taiud.  Indeed,  madam,  if  I  had  not  been 
a  fool,  I  might  have  lived  very  handsomely 
with  my  last  friend.  But  upon  his  missing 
five  guineas,  he  turned  me  off.  Now  I  never 
suspected  he  had  counted  them. 

Slam.  Who  do  you  look  upon,  madam,  as 
your  best  sort  of  keepers? 

Trull.  That,  madam,  is  thereafter  as  they 
be. 

Slam.  I,  madam,  was  once  kept  by  a  Jew; 
and  bating  their  religion,  to  women  they  are 
a  good  sort  of  people. 

TawJ.  Now  for  my  part,  I  own  I  like  an 
old  fellow;  for  we  always  make  them  pay  for 
what  they  can't  do. 

Vix.  A  spruce  prentice,  let  me  tell  you, 
ladies,  is  no  ill  thing,  they  bleed  freely.  I 
have  sent  at  least  two  or  three  dozen  of 
them  in  my  time  to  the  plantations. 

Jenny.  But  to  be  sure,  Sir,  with  so  much 
good  fortune  as  you  have  had  upon  the  road, 
you  must  be  grown  immensely  rich. 

Mach.  The  road,  indeed,  hath  done  me 
justice,  but  the  gaming-table  hath  been  my 
ruin. 

AIR  xxiv — When  once  I  lay  with  another  man's 

wife,  etc. 
Jenny. 
The    gamesters    and    lawyers    are    jugglers 

alike, 

If  they  meddle,  your  all  is  in  danger: 
Like  gypsies,  if  once  they  can  finger  a  souse, 
Your    pockets    they    pick,    and    they    pilfer 

your  house, 
And  give  your  estate  to  a  stranger. 

[A  man  of  courage  should  never  put  any- 
thing to  the  risk  but  his  life.]  These  are 
the  tools  of  men  of  honor.  Cards  and  dice 


are   only   fit  for   cowardly   cheats,   who   prey 
upon   their  friends. 

IShe  takes  up  his  pistol.     TAWDRY  takes  up 

the  other. 

Tawd.  This,  Sir,  is  fitter  for  your  hand. 
Besides  your  loss  of  money,  'tis  a  loss  to  the 
ladies.  Gaming  takes  you  off  from  women. 
How  fond  could  I  be  of  you!  but  before  com* 
pany,  'tis  ill-bred. 

Mach.     Wanton   hussies! 
Jenny.     I    must    and   will   have   a   kiss,    to 
give  my   wine  a   zest. 

[They  take  him  about  the  neck,  and  make 
signs  to  PEACHUM  and  constables,  who 
rush  in  upon  him. 

SCENE  V 
To    them   PEACHUM    and    Constables. 

Peach.     I  seize  you,  Sir,  as  my  prisoner. 

Mach.  Was  this  well  done,  Jenny? 
Women  are  decoy  ducks;  who  can  trust 
them!  Beasts,  jades,  jilts,  harpies,  furies, 
whores ! 

Peach.  Your  case,  Mr.  Macheath,  is  not 
particular.  The  greatest  heroes  have  been 
ruined  by  women.  But,  to  do  them  justice, 
I  must  own  they  are  a  pretty  sort  of  crea- 
tures, if  we  could  trust  them.  You  must 
now,  Sir,  take  your  leave  of  the  ladies,  and 
if  they  have  a  mind  to  make  you  a  visit, 
they  will  be  sure  to  find  you  at  home. 
This  gentleman,  ladies,  lodges  in  Newgate. 
Constables,  wait  upon  the  captain  to  his 
lodgings. 

AIR   xxv — When   first  I  laid  siege   to   my 

Chloris,    etc. 
Mach. 

At   the   tree  I  shall  suffer  with  pleasure. 
At  the   tree  I   shall   suffer   with  pleasure. 

Let   me   go   where    I   will, 

In  all   kinds  of  ill, 
I   shall  find  no  such  furies  as   these  are. 

Peach.  Ladies,  I'll  take  care  the  reckoning 
shall  be  discharged. 

[Exit  MACHEATH,  guarded,  with  PEACHUM 
and  Constables. 

SCENE  VI 
The  Women  remain. 

Vix.  Look  ye,  Mrs.  Jenny,  though  Mr. 
Peachum  may  have  made  a  private  bargain 
with  you  and  Suky  Tawdry  for  betraying  the 
captain,  as  we  were  all  assisting,  we  ought 
all  to  share  alike. 

Coax.  I  think  Mr.  Peachum,  after  so  long 
an  acquaintance,  might  have  trusted  me  as 
well  as  Jenny  Diver. 

Slam.  I  am  sure  at  least  three  men  of  his 
hanging,  and  in  a  year's  time  too,  (if  he 
did  me  justice)  should  be  set  down  to  my 


277 


ACT  II,  Sc.  IX. 


THE  BEGGAR'S  OPERA 


Trull.  Mrs.  Slammekin,  that  i*  not  fair. 
For  you  know  one  of  them  was  taken  in 
bed  with  me. 

Jenny.  As  far  as  a  bowl  of  punch  or  a 
treat,  I  believe  Mrs.  Suky  will  join  with 
me.  As  for  anything  else,  ladies,  you  can- 
not in  conscience  expect  it. 

Slam.     Dear    madam 

Trull.     I   would   not   for   the  world 

Slam.     Tis  impossible  for  me 

Trull.     As   I   hope   to   be   saved,   madam 

Slam.     Nay,    then    I    must    stay    here    all 

night. 

Trull.     Since    you    command   me. 

[Exeunt  with  great  ceremony. 


SCENE  VII 

NEWGATE. 

LOCKIT,  Turnkeys,  MACHEATH,  Constables. 

Lock.  Noble  captain,  you  are  welcome. 
You  have  not  been  a  lodger  of  mine  this 
year  and  half.  You  know  the  custom,  Sir. 
Garnish,  captain,  garnish.  Hand  me  down 
those  fetters  there. 

Mach.  Those,  Mr.  Lockit,  seem  to  be  the 
heaviest  of  the  whole  set!  With  your  leave, 
I  should  like  the  further  pair  better. 

Lock.  Look  ye,  captain,  we  know  what  is 
fittest  for  our  prisoners.  When  a  gentleman 
uses  me  with  civility,  I  always  do  the  best 
I  can  to  please  him.  Hand  them  down,  I 
say.  We  have  them  of  all  prices,  from  one 
guinea  to  ten,  and  'tis  fitting  every  gentle- 
man should  please  himself. 

Mach.  I  understand  you,  Sir  [gives  money]. 
The  fees  here  are  so  many,  and  so  exorbitant, 
that  few  fortunes  can  bear  the  expense  of 
getting  off  handsomely,  or  of  dying  like  a 
gentleman. 

Lock,  Those,  I  see,  will  fit  the  captain 
better.  Take  down  the  further  pair.  Do 
but  examine  them,  Sir, — never  was  better 
work.  How  genteelly  they  are  made!  They 
will  fit  as  easy  as  a  glove,  and  the  nicest 
man  in  England  might  not  be  ashamed  to 
wear  them.  [He  puts  on  the  chains.}  If 
I  had  the  best  gentleman  in  the  land  in  my 
custody,  I  could  not  equip  him  more  hand- 
somely. And  so,  Sir — I  now  leave  you  to 
your  private  meditations. 


SCENE  VIII 
MACHEATH. 

AIR    xxvi— -Courtiers,     courtiers,     think    it    no 
harm,  etc. 

Man  may   escape   from  rope  and   gun; 
Nay,    some    have    out-liv'd    the   doctor's    pill; 
Who    takes   a   woman   must   be   undone, 
That  basilisk  is  sure  to  kill. 


The  fly  that  sips  treacle  is  lost  in  the  sweets, 
So  he   that  tastes  woman,   woman,   woman, 
He   that    tastes    woman,    ruin   meets. 

To  what  a  woeful  plight  have  I  brought 
myself!  Here  must  I  (all  day-long,  till  I 
am  hanged)  be  confined  to  hear  the  re- 
proaches of  a  wench  who  lays  her  ruin  at 
my  door.  I  am  in  the  custody  of  her  father, 
and  to  be  sure  if  he  knows  of  the  matter, 
I  shall  have  a  fine  time  on't  betwixt  this 
and  my  execution.  But  I  promised  the  wench 
marriage.  What  signifies  a  promise  to  a 
woman?  Does  not  man  in  marriage  itself 
promise  a  hundred  things  that  he  never 
means  to  perform  ?  Do  all  we  can,  women 
will  believe  us;  for  they  look  upon  a  promise 
as  an  excuse  for  following  their  own  in- 
clinations. But  here  comes  Lucy,  and  I 
cannot  get  from  her.  Would  I  were  deaf! 

SCENE  IX 
MACHEATH,  LUCY. 

Lucy.  You  base  man,  you,  how  can  you 
look  me  in  the  face  after  what  hath  passed 
between  us? — See  here,  perfidious  wretch, 
how  I  am  forced  to  bear  about  the  load  of 
infamy  you  have  laid  upon  me — O  Macheath! 
thou  hast  robbed  me  of  my  quiet — to  see  thee 
tortured  would  give  me  pleasure. 

AIR  xxvn — A  lovely  lass  to  a  friar  came,  etc. 

Thus  when  a  good  housewife  sees   a  rat 

In  a  trap  in  the  morning  taken, 
With   pleasure  her  heart   goes  pit-a-pat 
In   revenge  for   her   loss   of   bacon. 
Then   she   throws   him 
To   the  dog   or   cat, 
To    be    worried,    crush'd    and    shaken. 

Mach.  Have  you  no  bowels,  no  tender- 
ness, my  dear  Lucy,  to  see  a  husband  in 
these  circumstances? 

Lucy.     A   husband! 

Mach.  In  every  respect  but  the  form,  and 
that,  my  dear,  may  be  said  over  us  at  any 
time.  Friends  should  not  insist  upon  cere- 
monies. From  a  man  of  honor,  his  word  is 
as  good  as  his  bond. 

Lucy.  'Tis  the  pleasure  of  all  you  fine 
men  to  insult  the  women  you  have  ruined. 

AIR  xxvin — 'Twos  when  the  sea  was  roaring, 
etc. 

How    cruel    are    the    traitors, 
Who  lie  and  swear  in  jest, 

To  cheat  unguarded  creatures 
Of  virtue,  fame,  and  rest! 

Whoever  steals  a  shilling 
Through  shame  the  guilt  conceals; 

In  love   the  perjur'd   villain 
With  boasts  the  theft  reveals. 


278 


THE  BEGGAR'S  OPERA 


ACT  II,  Sc.  X. 


Mach.  The  very  first  opportunity,  my 
dear,  (have  but  patience)  you  shall  be  my 
wife  in  whatever  manner  you  please. 

Lucy.  Insinuating  monster!  And  so  you 
think  I  know  nothing  of  the  affair  of  Miss 
Polly  Peachum.  I  could  tear  thy  eyes  out! 

Mach.  Sure,  Lucy,  you  can't  be  such  a 
fool  as  to  be  jealous  of  Polly! 

Lucy.     Are   you    not   married    to    her,    you 


brute,    you  ? 

Mach.     Married ! 


Very    good.    The    wench 


gives  it  out  only  to  vex  thee,  and  to  ruin 
me  in  thy  good  opinion.  'Tis  true  I  go  to 
the  house;  I  chat  with  the  girl,  I  kiss  her, 
I  say  a  thousand  things  to  her  (as  all 
gentlemen  do)  that  mean  nothing,  to  divert 
myself;  and  now  the  silly  jade  hath  set  it 
about  that  I  am  married  to  her,  to  let  me 
know  what  she  would  be  at.  Indeed,  my 
dear  Lucy,  these  violent  passions  may  be 
of  ill  consequence  to  a  woman  in  your  con- 
dition. 

Lucy.  Come,  come,  captain,  for  all  your 
assurance,  you  know  that  Miss  Polly  hath 
put  it  out  of  your  power  to  do  me  the  jus- 
tice you  promised  me. 

Mach.  A  jealous  woman  believes  every- 
thing her  passion  suggests.  To  convince  you 
of  my  sincerity,  if  we  can  find  the  ordinary, 
I  shall  have  no  scruples  of  making  you  my 
wife;  and  I  know  the  consequence  of  having 
two  at  a  time. 

Lucy.  That  you  are  only  to  be  hanged, 
and  so  get  rid  of  them  both. 

Mach.  I  am  ready,  my  dear  Lucy,  to 
give  you  satisfaction — if  you  think  there 
is  any  in  marriage.  What  can  a  man  of 
honor  say  more  ? 

Lucy.  So  then  it  seems,  you  are  not  mar- 
ried to  Miss  Polly. 

Mach.  You  know,  Lucy,  the  girl  is  pro- 
digiously conceited.  No  man  can  say  a  civil 
thing  to  her,  but  (like  other  fine  ladies) 
her  vanity  makes  her  think  he's  her  own 
for  ever  and  ever. 


AIR    xxix — The    sun    had    loos'd    his    weary 
teams,  etc. 

The   first    time    at   the    looking-glass 

The   mother   sets    her   daughter, 
The    image    strikes    the    smiling    lass 

With    self-love   ever    after. 
Each    time    she    looks,    she,    fonder   grown, 

Thinks    ev'ry    charm    grows    stronger. 
But  alas,  vain  maid,   all  eyes   but  your  own 

Can   see  you  are  not   younger. 

When  women  consider  their  own  beauties, 
they  are  all  alike  unreasonable  in  their  de- 
mands; for  they  expect  their  lovers  should 
like  them  as  long  as  they  like  themselves. 

Lucy.     Yonder   is   my   father — perhaps   this 
way   we   may   light   upon   the   ordinary,    who 


shall  try  if  you  will  be  as  good  as  your  word. 
For  I  long  to  be  made  an  honest  woman. 

SCENE  X 
PEACHUM,    LOCKIT   with   an   account-book. 

Lock.  In  this  last  affair,  brother  Peachum, 
we  are  agreed.  You  have  consented  to  go 
halves  in  Macheath. 

Peach.  We  shall  never  fall  out  about  an 
execution.  But  as  to  that  article,  pray  how 
stands  our  last  year's  account? 

Lock.  If  you  will  run  your  eye  over  it, 
you'll  find  'tis  fair  and  clearly  stated. 

Peach.  This  long  arrear  of  the  govern- 
ment is  very  hard  upon  us!  Can  it  be  ex- 
pected that  we  should  hang  our  acquaint- 
ance for  nothing,  when  our  betters  will 
hardly  save  theirs  without  being  paid  for 
it?  Unless  the  people  in  employment  pay 
better,  I  promise  them  for  the  future,  I 
shall  let  other  rogues  live  besides  their  own. 

Lock.  Perhaps,  brother,  they  are  afraid 
these  matters  may  be  carried  too  far.  We 
are  treated  too  by  them  with  contempt,  as 
if  our  profession  were  not  reputable. 

Peach.  In  one  respect,  indeed,  our  em- 
ployment may  be  reckoned  dishonest,  be- 
cause, like  great  statesmen,  we  encourage 
those  who  betray  their  friends. 

Lock.  Such  language,  brother,  anywhere 
else  might  turn  to  your  prejudice.  Learn  to 
be  more  guarded,  I  beg  you. 

AIR  xxx — How   happy    are   we,   etc. 

When   you   censure   the  age, 

Be   cautious   and   sage, 
Lest  the  courtiers  offended  should  be. 

If  you  mention  vice  or  bribe, 

'Tis  so  pat  to  all  the  *ribe; 
Each   cries — That   was   levell'd   at   me. 

Peach.  Here's  poor  Ned  Clencher's  name, 
I  see.  Sure,  Brother  Lockit,  there  was  a 
little  unfair  proceeding  in  Ned's  case;  for 
he  told  me  in  the  condemned  hold,  that  for 
value  received,  you  had  promised  him  a 
session  or  two  longer  without  molestation. 

Lock.  Mr.  Peachum,  this  is  the  first  time 
my  honor  was  ever  called  in  question. 

Peach.  Business  is  at  an  end,  if  once  we 
act  dishonorably. 

Lock.     Who  accuses  me? 

Peach.     You    are    warm,    brother. 

Lock.  He  that  attacks  my  honor,  at- 
tacks my  livelihood.  And  this  usage,  Sir, 
not  to  be  borne. 

Peach.  Since  you  provoke  me  to  speak,  I 
must  tell  you  too,  that  Mrs.  Coaxer  charges 
you  with  defrauding  her  of  her  information- 
money,  for  the  apprehending  of  curl-pated 
Hugh.  Indeed,  indeed,  brother,  we  must 
punctually  pay  our  spies,  or  we  shall  have 
no  information. 


279 


ACT  II,  Sc.  XIII. 


THE  BEGGAR'S  OPERA 


Lock,     la  this  language  to  me,  Sirrah,  who 
have  saved  you  from  the   gallows,   Sirrah? 
[.Collaring    each    other. 

Peach.  If  I  am  hanged,  it  shall  be  for 
ridding  the  world  of  an  arrant  rascal. 

Lock.  This  hand  shall  do  the  office  of  the 
halter  you  deserve,  and  throttle  you,  you 
doc! 

Peach.  Brother,  brother,  we  are  both  in 
the  wrong.  We  shall  be  both  losers  in  the 
dispute — for  you  know  we  have  it  in  our 
power  to  hang  each  other.  You  should  not 
be  so  passionate. 

Lock.     Nor  you  so  provoking. 

Ptach.  'Tis  our  mutual  interest;  'tis  for 
the  interest  of  the  world  we  should  agree. 
If  I  said  anything,  brother,  to  the  prejudice 
of  your  character,  I  ask  pardon. 

Lock.  Brother  Peachum,  I  can  forgive 
as  well  as  resent.  Give  me  your  hand. 
Suspicion  does  not  become  a  friend. 

Peach.  I  only  meant  to  give  you  occasion 
to  justify  yourself.  But  I  must  now  step 
home,  for  I  expect  the  gentleman  about  this 
snuff-box,  that  Filch  nimmed  two  nights  ago 
in  the  park.  I  appointed  him  at  this  hour. 


SCENE  XI 
LOCKIT,  LUCY. 


Lock. 
Lucy. 
tion. 
Lock. 


Whence  come   you,  hussy! 

My   tears  might  answer  that  ques- 

You    have     then    been    whimpering 


and  fondling,  like  a  spaniel,  over  the  fellow 
that  hath  abused  you. 

Lucy.  One  can't  help  love;  one  can't 
cure  it.  'Tis  not  in  my  power  to  obey  you, 
and  hate  him. 

Lock.  Learn  to  bear  your  husband's  death 
like  a  reasonable  woman.  'Tis  not  the  fash- 
ion, now-a-days,  so  much  as  to  affect  sor- 
row upon  these  occasions.  No  woman  would 
ever  marry,  if  she  had  not  the  chance  of 
mortality  for  a  release.  Act  like  a  woman  of 
spirit,  hussy,  and  thank  your  father  for  what 
he  is  doing. 

AIR  xxxi — Of  a  noble  race  was   Shenkin. 
Lucy. 
Is   then  his  fate  decreed,  Sir? 

Such  a  man  can  I  think  of  quitting? 
When  first  we  met,   so  moves  me  yet, 
Oh  see  how  my  heart  is  splitting! 

~Lock.  Look  ye,  Lucy — there  is  no  saving 
"him so,  I  think,  you  must  ev'n  do  like 


other    widows 
cheerful. 


-buy    yourself    weeds,    and    be 


AIR     XXXII 

You'll    think,    e'er   many    days    ensue, 
This   sentence   not  severe; 


I   hang  your  husband,  child,  'tis  true, 
But  with  him   hang  your  care. 
Twang    dang    dillo    dee. 

Like  a  good  wife,  go  moan  over  your  dying 
husband.  That,  child,  is  your  duty Con- 
sider, girl,  you  can't  have  the  man  and  the 
money  too — so  make  yourself  as  easy  as  you 
can  by  getting  all  you  can  from  him. 

SCENE   XII 
LUCY,  MACHEATH. 

Lucy.  Though  the  ordinary  was  out  of  the 
way  to-day,  I  hope,  my  dear,  you  will,  upon 

the  first  opportunity,  quiet  my  scruples 

Oh,  Sir!— my  father's  hard  heart  is  not  to 
be  softened,  and  I  am  in  the  utmost  despair. 

Macli.  But  if  I  could  raise  a  small  sum- 
Would  not  twenty  guineas,  think  you,  move 

him? Of  all  the  arguments  in  the  way  of 

business,  the  perquisite  is  the  most  prevail- 
ing.  Your  father's  perquisites  for  the  es- 
cape of  prisoners  must  amount  to  a  con- 
siderable sum  in  the  year.  Money  well  timed 
and  properly  applied,  will  do  anything. 

AIR  xxxin — London  ladies. 

If   you   at  an  office  solicit  your  due, 

And   would   not   have   matters   neglected; 
You    must    quicken   the    clerk    with    the   per- 
quisite   too, 

To   do   what   his    duty    directed. 
Or  would  you  the  frowns   of  a  lady  prevent, 

She   too  has   this  palpable  failing, 
The  perquisite  softens  her  into  consent; 

That  reason   with  all  is  prevailing. 

Lucy.  What  love  or  money  can  do  shall 
be  done:  for  all  my  comfort  depends  upon 
your  safety. 

SCENE  XIII 
LUCY,  MACHEATH,  POLLY. 

Polly.     Where  is  my  dear  husband? Was 

rope  ever  intended  for  his  neck  ? — Oh  let 
me  throw  my  arms  about  it,  and  throttle 
thee  with  love! — Why  dost  thou  turn  away 
from  me? — 'Tis  thy  Polly — 'Tis  thy  wife. 

Mach.  Was  there  ever  such  an  unfortunate 
rascal  as  I  am! 

Lucy.  Was  there  ever  such  another  vil- 
lain! 

Polly.  O  Macheath!  was  it  for  this  we 
parted  ?  Taken !  imprisoned !  tried !  hanged ! 

-cruel  reflection!  I'll  stay  with  thee  till 
death — no  force  shall  tear  thy  dear  wife  from 

thee  now. What  means  my  love? — not  one 

kind  word!  not  one  kind  look!  think  what  thy 
Polly  suffers  to  see  thee  in  this  condition. 

AIR   xxxiv — All  in   the   Downs,  etc. 
Thus  when  the  swallow,  seeking  prey, 
Within  the  sash  is  closely  pent, 


280 


THE  BEGGAR'S  OPERA 


ACT  II,  Sc.  XIII. 


His    consort,    with    bemoaning    lay, 

Without   sits   pining   for    th'   event, 
Her  chattering  lovers  all   around   her  skim; 
She  heeds  them  not   (poor  bird!)— her  soul's 
with   him. 

Much.  I  must  disown  her.  [Aside.]  The 
wench  is  distracted. 

Lucy.  Am  I  then  bilked  of  my  virtue? 
Can  I  have  no  reparation?  Sure  men  were 
born  to  lie,  and  women  to  believe  them. 
O  villain!  villain! 

Polly.  Am  I  not  thy  wife?  Thy  neglect 
of  me,  thy  aversion  to  me,  too  severely 
proves  it.  Look  on  me.  Tell  me,  am  I  not 
thy  wife? 

Lucy.     Perfidious  wretch! 

Polly.     Barbarous    husband ! 

Lucy.  Hadst  thou  been  hanged  five 
months  ago,  I  had  been  happy. 

Polly.  And  I  too — If  you  had  been  kind  to 
me  till  death,  it  would  not  have  vexed  me — 
and  that's  no  very  unreasonable  request 
(though  from  a  wife),  to  a  man  who  hath  not 
above  seven  or  eight  days  to  live. 

Lucy.  Art  thou  then  married  to  another? 
Hast  thou  two  wives,  monster? 

Mach.  If  women's  tongues  can  cease  for 
an  answer — hear  me. 

Lucy.  I  won't.  Flesh  and  blood  can't  bear 
my  usage. 

Polly.  Shall  I  not  claim  my  own?  Justice 
bids  me  speak. 

AIR    xxxv — Have    you    heard    of   a    frolicsome 

ditty,  etc. 
Mach. 
How    happy    could    I    be    with    either, 

Were  t'other  dear  charmer  away! 
But  while  you  thus  teaze  me  together, 
To  neither  a  word  will  I  say: 
But  tol  de  rol,  etc. 

Polly.  Sure,  my  dear,  there  ought  to  be 
some  preference  shown  to  a  wife!  At  least 
she  may  claim  the  appearance  of  it.  He  must 
be  distracted  with  his  misfortunes,  or  he 
could  not  use  me  thus! 

Lucy.  O  villain,  villain!  thou  hast  de- 
ceived me — I  could  even  inform  against  thee 
with  pleasure.  Not  a  prude  wishes  more 
heartily  to  have  facts  against  her  intimate 
acquaintance,  than  I  now  wish  to  have  facts 
against  thee.  I  would  have  her  satisfaction, 
and  they  should  all  out. 

AIR   xxxvi — Irish   Trot. 

Polly.  I'm  bubbled. 

Lucy.  I'm  bubbled. 

Polly.  Oh  how  I   am  troubled! 

Lucy.  Bamboozled,    and    bit! 

Polly.  My  distresses  are  doubled. 


Lucy. 

When    you    come    to 
hangman  refuse, 


the    tree,    should    the 


These  fingers,  with  pleasure,  could  fasten  the 
noose. 

Polly.     I'm   bubbled,    etc. 

Mach.  Be  pacified,  my  dear  Lucy This 

is  all  a  fetch  of  Polly's  to  make  me  desperate 
with  you  in  case  I  get  off.  If  I  am  hanged, 
she  would  fain  have  the  credit  of  being 

thought  my  widow Really,  Polly,  this  is 

no  time  for  a  dispute  of  this  sort;  for  when- 
ever you  are  talking  of  marriage,  I  am  think- 
ing of  hanging. 

Polly.  And  hast  thou  the  heart  to  persist 
in  disowning  me  ? 

Mach.  And  hast  thou  the  heart  to  persist 
in  persuading  me  that  I  am  married?  Why, 
Polly,  dost  thou  seek  to  aggravate  my  mis- 
fortunes ? 

Lucy.  Really,  Miss  Peachum,  you  but  ex- 
pose yourself.  Besides,  'tis  barbarous  in  you 
to  worry  a  gentleman  in  his  circumstances. 


Polly. 


AIR    XXXVII 


Cease  your   funning, 

Force  or  cunning 
Never  shall  my  heart  trepan. 
All   these   sallies 
Are   but  malice 
To  seduce  my  constant  man. 
'Tis  most  certain, 
By   their  flirting, 
Women  oft  have  envy  shown; 
Pleas'd  to  ruin 
Others'  wooing; 
Never   happy  in   their  own! 
Lucy.     Decency,    madam,    methinks,    might 
teach  you  to  behave  yourself  with  some  re- 
serve   with    the    husband,    while    his    wife    is 
present. 

Mach.     But,  seriously,  Polly,  this  is  carry- 
ing the  joke  a  little  too  far. 


Lucy. 


If    you    are    determined,   madam,    to 
disturbance    in    the    prison,    I    shall 


be  obliged  to  send  for  the  turnkey  to  show 
you  the  door.  I  am  sorry,  madam,  you  force 
me  to  be  so  ill-bred. 

Polly.  Give  me  leave  to  tell  you,  madam; 
these  forward  airs  don't  become  you  in  the 
least,  madam.  And  my  duty,  madam,  obliges 
me  to  stay  with  my  husband,  madam. 

AIR  xxxvin — Good-morrow,  gossip  Joan. 
Lucy. 

Why,   how   now,    Madam    Flirt? 

If  you  thus  must  chatter; 
And  are  for  flinging  dirt, 
Let's  try  who  best  can  spatter! 

Madam    Flirt! 
Polly. 

Why,  how  now,  saucy  jade; 
Sure  the  wench  is  tipsy! 


281 


ACT  III,  Sc.  I. 


THE  BEGGAR'S  OPERA 


How  can  you  see  me  made  [To  him. 

The  scoff  of  such  a  gipsy? 

Saucy  jade!    [To  her. 


SCENE  XIV 
LUCY,    MACHEATH,    POLLY,    PEACHUM. 

Peach.  Where's  my  wench?  Ah  hussy! 

hussy! Come  you  home,  you  slut;  and 

when  your  fellow  is  hanged,  hang  yourself, 
to  make  your  family  some  amends. 

Polly.  Dear,  dear  father,  do  not  tear  me 

from  him 1  must  speak;  I  have  more  to 

say  to  him Oh!  twist  thy  fetters  about 

me,  that  he  may  not  haul  me  from  thee! 

Peach.  Sure  all  women  are  alike!  If  ever 
they  commit  the  folly,  they  are  sure  to  com- 
mit another  by  exposing  themselves. — Away 
—not  a  word  more — you  are  my  prisoner 
now,  hussy. 

AIR  xxxix — Irish   howl. 
Polly. 

No  power  on  earth  can  e'er  divide 
The  knot  that  sacred  love  hath  tied. 
When  parents  draw  against  our  mind, 
The  true-love's  knot  they  faster  bind. 

Oh,  oh  ray,  oh  amborah — Oh,  oh,  etc. 
[Holding  MACHEATH,  PEACHUM  pulling  her. 

SCENE  XV 
LUCY,  MACHEATH. 

Mack.  I  am  naturally  compassionate,  wife; 
•o  that  I  could  not  use  the  •wench  as  she 
deserved;  which  made  you  at  first  suspect 
there  was  something  in  what  she  said. 

Lucy.  Indeed,  my  dear,  I  was  strangely 
puzzled. 

Mac/i.  If  that  had  been  the  case,  her 
father  would  never  have  brought  me  into 
this  circumstance — No,  Lucy, — I  had  rather 
die  than  be  false  to  thee. 

Lucy.  How  happy  am  I  if  you  say  this 
from  your  heart!  For  I  love  thee  so,  that  I 
could  sooner  bear  to  see  thee  hanged  than 
in  the  arms  of  another. 

Much.  But  couldst  thou  bear  to  see  me 
hanged  ? 

Lucy.  O  Macheath,  I  can  never  live  to 
see  that  day. 

Mach.  You  see,  Lucy;  in  the  account  of 
love  you  are  in  my  debt,  and  you  must  now 
be  convinced  that  I  rather  choose  to  die 
than  to  be  another's.  Make  me,  if  possible, 
love  thee  more,  and  let  me  owe  my  life  to 
thee — if  you  refuse  to  assist  me,  Peachum  and 
your  father  will  immediately  put  me  beyond 
all  means  of  escape. 

Lucy.  My  father,  I  know,  hath  been  drink- 
ing hard  with  the  prisoners:  and  I  fancy  he 
is  now  taking  his  nap  in  his  own  room — if 


I  can  procure  the  keys,  shall  I  go  off  with 
thee,  my  dear? 

Mach.  If  we  are  together,  'twill  be  im- 
possible to  lie  concealed.  As  soon  as  the 
search  begins  to  be  a  little  cool,  I  will  send 
to  thee — till  then  my  heart  is  thy  prisoner. 

Lucy.  Come  then,  my  dear  husband — owe 
thy  life  to  me — and  though  you  love  me  not — 
be  grateful.  But  that  Polly  runs  in  my  head 
strangely. 

Mach.  A  moment  of  time  may  make  us 
unhappy  for  ever. 

AIR   XL — The  lass   of  Patie's  mill,   etc. 

Lucy. 

I  like  the  fox   shall  grieve, 

Whose  mate  hath  left  her  side, 
Whom  hounds,  from  morn  till  eve, 

Chase  o'er  the  country  wide. 
Where  can  my  lover  hide? 

Where  cheat  the  weary  pack? 
If  love  be  not  his  guide, 

He  never  will  come  back! 


ACT  III 

SCENE   I 

NEWGATE. 

LOCKIT,  LUCY. 

Lock.  To  be  sure,  wench,  you  must  have 
been  aiding  and  abetting  to  help  him  to  this 
escape. 

Lucy.  Sir,  here  hath  been  Peachum  and 
his  daughter  Polly,  and  to  be  sure  they 
know  the  ways  of  Newgate  as  well  as  if 
they  had  been  born  and  bred  in  the  place 
all  their  lives.  Why  must  all  your  suspicion 
light  upon  me  ? 

Lock.  Lucy,  Lucy,  I  will  have  none  of 
these  shuffling  answers. 

Lucy.  Well  then— if  I  know  anything  of 
him,  I  wish  I  may  be  burnt! 

Lock.  Keep  your  temper,  Lucy,  or  I  shall 
pronounce  you  guilty. 

Lucy.  Keep  yours,  Sir.  I  do  wish  I  may 
be  burnt,  I  do.  And  what  can  I  say  more  to 
convince  you? 

Lock.  Did  he  tip  handsomely?  How  much 
did  he  come  down  with?  Come,  hussy,  don't 
cheat  your  father;  and  I  shall  not  be  angry 
with  you.  Perhaps,  you  have  made  a  better 
bargain  With  him  than  I  could  have  done. 
How  much,  my  good  girl? 

Lucy.  You  know,  Sir,  I  am  fond  of  him, 
and  would  have  given  money  to  have  kept 
him  with  me. 

Lock.  Ah,  Lucy!  thy  education  might 
have  put  thee  more  upon  thy  guard;  for  a 
girl  in  the  bar  of  an  ale-house  is  always 
besieged. 

Lucy.  Dear  Sir,  mention  not  my  educa- 
tion— for  'twas  to  that  I  owe  my  ruin. 


282 


THE  BEGGAR'S  OPERA 


ACT  III,  Sc.  III. 


AIR    XLI — If   love's    a    sweet    passion,    etc. 

When  young  at  the  bar  you  first  taught  me 

to   score, 

And  bid  me  be  free  of  my  lips,  and  no  more; 
I  was  kiss'd  by  the  parson,  the  squire,  and 

the  sot. 
When  the  guest  was  departed,  the  kiss  was 

forgot. 
But  his  kiss  was  so  sweet,  and  so  closely  he 

prest, 
That    I    languish'd   and   pined    till    I    granted 

the  rest. 

If  you  can  forgive  me,  Sir,  I  will  make  a 
fair  confession,  for  to  be  sure  he  hath  been 
a  most  barbarous  villain  to  me. 

Lock.  And  so  you  have  let  him  escape, 
hussy — Have  you? 

Lucy.  When  a  woman  loves,  a  kind  look, 
a  tender  word  can  persuade  her  to  anything, 
and  I  could  ask  no  other  bribe. 

Lock.  Thou  wilt  always  be  a  vulgar  slut, 
Lucy.  If  you  would  not  be  looked  upon  as 
a  fool,  you  should  never  do  anything  but 
upon  the  foot  of  interest.  Those  that  act 
otherwise  are  their  own  bubbles. 

Lucy.  But  love,  Sir,  is  a  misfortune  that 
may  happen  to  the  most  discreet  woman,  and 
in  love  we  are  all  fools  alike.  Notwithstand- 
ing all  he  swore,  I  am  now  fully  convinced 
that  Polly  Peachum  is  actually  his  wife.  Did 
I  let  him  escape  (fool  that  I  was!)  to  go 
to  her?  Polly  will  wheedle  herself  into  his 
money,  and  then  Peachum  will  hang  him,  and 
cheat  us  both. 

Lock.  So  I  am  to  be  ruined,  because,  for- 
sooth, you  must  be  in  love! — a  very  pretty 
excuse ! 

Lucy.  I  could  murder  that  impudent 
happy  strumpet — I  gave  him  his  life,  and  that 
creature  enjoys  the  sweets  of  it.  Ungrateful 
Macheath ! 

AIR   XLII — South-sea   Ballad. 

My  love  is  all  madness  and  folly, 

Alone   I   lie, 

Toss,  tumble,   and  cry, 
What  a  happy  creature  is  Polly! 
Was  e'er   such  a  wretch   as   I! 
With  rage  I  redden  like  scarlet, 
That    my   dear   inconstant   varlet, 

Stark  blind  to  my  charms, 

Is  lost  in  the  arms 
Of  that  jilt,  that  inveigling  harlot! 

Stark  blind   to  my  charms, 

Is   lost   in   the   arms 
Of  that  jilt,  that  inveigling  harlot! 
This,  this  my  resentment  alarms. 

Lock.  And  so,  after  all  this  mischief,  I 
must  stay  here  to  be  entertained  with  your 


caterwauling,     mistress     Puss!    Out     of     my 
sight,  wanton  strumpet!    You  shall  fast  and 


mortify  yourself  into  reason,  with  now  and 
then  a  little  handsome  discipline  to  bring 
you  to  your  senses.  Go. 

SCENE  II 
LOCKIT. 

Peachum  then  intends  to  outwit  me  in 
this  affair;  but  I'll  be  even  with  him.  The 
dog  is  leaky  in  his  liquor,  so  I'll  ply  him  that 
way,  get  the  secret  from  him,  and  turn  this 
affair  to  my  own  advantage.  Lions,  wolves, 
and  vultures  don't  live  together  in  herds, 
droves  or  flocks.  Of  all  animals  of  prey, 
man  is  the  only  sociable  one.  Every  one  of 
us  preys  upon  his  neighbor,  and  yet  we 
herd  together.  Peachum  is  my  companion, 
my  friend.  According  to  the  custom  of  the 
world,  indeed,  he  may  quote  thousands  of 
precedents  for  cheating  me.  And  shall  not 
I  make  use  of  the  privilege  of  friendship  to 
make  him  a  return? 

AIR    XLIII — Packington's   Pound. 

Thus    gamesters     united    in    friendship    are 

found, 
Though    they    know    that    their    industry    all 

is    a   cheat; 
They    flock   to    their   prey   at    the    dice-box's 

sound, 

And  join   to  promote  one  another's   deceit. 
But  if   by  mishap 
They  fail  of  a  chap, 
To    keep    in    their    hands,    they    each    other 

entrap. 
Like   pikes,   lank   with   hunger,   who   miss   of 

their    ends, 
They    bite    their 

their  friends. 


companions,    and    prey    on 


Now,  Peachum,  you  and  I,  like  honest 
tradesmen,  are  to  have  a  fair  trial  which  of 
us  two  can  over-reach  the  other.  Lucy. 
[Enter  LUCY.]  Are  there  any  of  Peachum's 
people  now  in  the  house? 

Lucy.  Filch,  Sir,  is  drinking  a  quartern 
of  strong  waters  in  the  next  room  with 
Black  Moll. 

Lock.     Bid  him  come  to  me. 


SCENE  III 
LOCKIT,  FILCH. 

Lock.  Why,  boy,  thou  lookest  as  if  thou 
wert  half  starved;  like  a  shot  ten  herring. 

Filch.  One  had  need  have  the  constitu- 
tion of  a  horse  to  go  through  the  business— 
Since  the  favorite  child-getter  was  dis- 
abled by  a  mishap,  I  have  picked  up  a  little 
money  by  helping  the  ladies  to  a  pregnancy 
against  their  being  called  down  to  sentence. 
But  if  a  man  cannot  get  an  honest  livelihood 
any  easier  way,  I  am  sure,  'tis  what  I  can't 
undertake  for  another  session.  • 


283 


ACT  III,  Sc.  V. 


THE  BEGGAR'S  OPERA 


Lock.  Truly,  if  that  great  man  should  tip 
off,  'twould  be  an  irreparable  loss.  The 
vigor  and  prowess  of  a  knight-errant  never 
saved  half  the  ladies  in  distress  that  he  hath 
done.  But,  boy,  canst  thou  tell  me  where 
thy  master  is  to  be  found? 

Filch.  At  his  lock,  Sir,  at  the  Crooked 
Billet. 

Lock.  Very  well.  I  have  nothing  more 
with  you.  [Exit  FILCH.]  I'll  go  to  him  there, 
for  I  have  many  important  affairs  to  settle 
with  him;  and  in  the  way  of  those  transac- 
tions, I'll  artfully  get  into  his  secret.  So 
that  Macheath  shall  not  remain  a  day  longer 
out  o*  my  clutches. 


SCENE  IV 
A  GAMING-HOUSE. 

MACHEATH    in    a    fine    tarnished    coat,     BEN 
BUDGE,  MATT  OF  THE  MINT. 

Mach.  I  am  sorry,  gentlemen,  the  road 
was  so  barren  of  money.  When  my  friends 
are  in  difficulties,  I  am  always  glad  that  my 
fortune  can  be  serviceable  to  them.  [Gires 
them  money.]  You  see,  gentlemen,  I  am  not 
a  mere  court  friend,  who  professes  every- 
thing and  will  do  nothing. 

AIR    XLIV — Lillibullero. 

The    modes    of    the    court    so    common    are 

grown, 

That  a  true   friend  can   hardly  be   met; 
Friendship   for   interest   is   but   a   loan, 
Which  they  let  out  for  what  they  can  get. 
'Tis    true,    you   find 
Some  friends   so  kind, 
Who  will  give  you  good  counsel   themselves 

to    defend. 
In   sorrowful   ditty, 
They   promise,    they   pity, 

But    shift    you,    for    money,    from    friend    to 
friend. 

But  we,  gentlemen,  have  still  honor  enough 
to  break  through  the  corruptions  of  the 
world.  And  while  I  can  serve  you,  you  may 
command  me. 

Ben.  It  grieves  my  heart  that  so  generous 
a  man  should  be  involved  in  such  difficulties, 
as  oblige  him  to  live  with  such  ill  com- 
pany, and  herd  with  gamesters. 

Matt.  See  the  partiality  of  mankind!  One 
man  may  steal  a  horse,  better  than  another 
look  over  a  hedge.  Of  all  mechanics,  of  all  ser- 
vile handicrafts-men,  a  gamester  is  the  vilest. 
But  yet,  as  many  of  the  quality  are  of  the 


profession,  he  is  admitted  amongst  the  po- 
litest company.  I  wonder  we  are  not  more 
respected. 

Mach.     There    will    be    deep    play    to-night 
at   Marybone   and    consequently   money    may 

284 


be  picked  up  upon  the  road.  Meet  me  there, 
and  I'll  give  you  the  hint  who  is  worth  set- 
ting. 

Matt.  The  fellow  with  a  brown  coat,  with 
narrow  gold  binding,  I  am  told,  is  never 
without  money. 

Mach.  What  do  you  mean,  Matt?  Sure 
you  will  not  think  of  meddling  with  him! 
He's  a  good  honest  kind  of  a  fellow,  and 
one  of  us. 

Ben.  To  be  sure,  Sir,  we  will  put  our- 
selves under  your  direction. 

Mach.  Have  an  eye  upon  the  money- 
lenders. A  rouleau  or  two,  would  prove  a 
pretty  sort  of  an  expedition.  I  hate  extor- 
tion. 

Matt.  These  rouleaus  are  very  pretty 
things.  I  hate  your  bank  bills.  There  is 
such  a  hazard  in  putting  them  off. 

Mach.  There  is  a  certain  man  of  dis- 
tinction, who  in  his  time  hath  nicked  me  out 
of  a  great  deal  of  the  ready.  He  is  in  my 
cash,  Ben.  I'll  point  him  out  to  you  this 
evening,  and  you  shall  draw  upon  him  for 
the  debt.  The  company  are  met;  I  hear  the 
dice-box  in  the  other  room.  So,  gentlemen, 
your  servant.  You'll  meet  me  at  Marybone. 


SCENE  V 
PEACHUM'S  LOCK. 

A  table  with  wine,   brandy,  pipes  and  tobacco. 
PEACHUM,  LOCKIT. 

Lock.  The  Coronation  account,  brother 
Peachum,  is  of  so  intricate  a  nature,  that  I 
believe  it  will  never  be  settled. 

Peach.  It  consists,  indeed,  of  a  great 
variety  of  articles.  It  was  worth  to  our 
people,  in  fees  of  different  kinds,  above  ten 
instalments.  This  is  part  of  the  account, 
brother,  that  lies  open  before  us. 

Lock.  A  lady's  tail  of  rich  brocade — that, 
I  see,  is  disposed  of — 

Peach.  To  Mrs.  Diana  Trapes,  the  tally- 
woman,  and  she  will  make  a  good  hand  on't 
in  shoes  and  slippers,  to  trick  out  young 
ladies,  upon  their  going  into  keeping. 

Lock.  But  I  don't  see  any  article  of  the 
jewels. 

Peach.  Those  are  so  well  known  that  they 
must  be  sent  abroad.  You'll  find  them  en- 
tered under  the  article  of  exportation.  As 
for  the  snuff-boxes,  watches,  swords,  etc.,  I 
thought  it  best  to  enter  them  under  their 
several  heads. 

Lock.  Seven  and  twenty  women's  pockets 
complete;  with  the  several  things  therein 


contained;  all  sealed,  numbered,  and  entered. 
Peach.     But,    brother,    it   is    impossible    for 

us     now     to    enter    upon     this     affair. We 

should    have    the    whole    day    before    us. 

Besides,   the   account  of   the   last   half-year's 


THE  BEGGAR'S  OPERA 


ACT  III,  Sc.  VI. 


plate  is  in  a  book  by  itself,  which  lies  at 
the  other  office. 

Lock.  Bring:  us  then  more  liquor. To- 
day shall  be  for  pleasure. To-morrow  for 

business. Ah    brother,    those   daughters   of 

ours  are  two  slippery  hussies.  Keep  a  watch- 
ful eye  upon  Polly,  and  Macheath  in  a  day 
or  two  shall  be  our  own  again. 

AIR   XLV — Down   in   the  North  Country,   etc. 

Lock. 

What   gudgeons    are   we   men! 

Ev'ry   woman's   easy   prey, 
Though  we  have  felt  the  hook,  again 

We    bite   and   they   betray. 
The  bird  that  hath  been  trapt, 

When  he  hears   his  calling  mate, 
To  her  he  flies,  again  he's  clapt 

Within   the  wiry  grate. 

Peach.  But  what  signifies  catching  the 
bird,  if  your  daughter  Lucy  will  set  open  the 
door  of  the  cage? 

Lock.  If  men  were  answerable  for  the 
follies  and  frailties  of  their  wives  and  daugh- 
ters, no  friends  could  keep  a  good  corre- 
spondence together  for  two  days. This  is 

unkind  of  you,  brother;  for  among  good 
friends,  what  they  say  or  do  goes  for  noth- 
ing. 

Enter  a  Servant. 

Serv.  Sir,  here's  Mrs.  Diana  Trapes  wants 
to  speak  with  you. 

Peach.  Shall  we  admit  her,  brother 
Lockit? 

Lock.  By  all  means — she's  a  good  cus- 
tomer, and  a  fine-spoken  woman — and  a 
woman  who  drinks  and  talks  so  freely,  will 
enliven  the  conversation. 

Peach.     Desire   her   to   walk   in. 

[Exit    Servant. 

SCENE  VI 
PEACHUM,   LOCKIT,  MRS.  TRAPES. 

Peach.  Dear  Mrs.  Dye,  your  servant 

one  may  know  by  your  kiss,  that  your  gin 
is  excellent. 

Trapes.  I  was  always  very  curious  in  my 
liquors. 

Lock.  There  is  no  perfumed  breath  like 
it— I  have  been  long  acquainted  with  the 
flavor  of  those  lips han't  I,  Mrs.  Dye? 

Trapes.  Fill  it  up.— I  take  as  large 
draughts  of  liquor,  as  I  did  of  love.— I  hate 
a  flincher  in  either. 

AIR    XLVI — A   Shepherd  kept  sheep,  etc. 

In   the   days   of  my  youth   I  could  bill  like  a 

dove,  fa,  la,  la,  etc. 
Like   a   sparrow   at   all   times   was   ready   for 

love,    fa,    la,    la,    etc. 


The  life  of  all  mortals  in  kissing  should  pass, 
Lip  to  lip  while  we're  young — then  the  lip  to 
the  glass,  fa,  etc. 

But  now,  Mr.  Peachum,  to  our  business. — 
[f  you  have  blacks  of  any  kind,  brought  in 

of  late;  man  toes velvet  scarfs petticoats 

et  it  be  what  it  will — I  am  your  chap 
for  all  my  ladies  are  very  fond  of  mourn- 
ing. 

Peach.  Why,  look  ye,  Mrs.  Dye — you  deal 
so  hard  with  us,  that  we  can  afford  to  give 
the  gentlemen,  who  venture  their  lives  for 
the  goods,  little  or  nothing. 

Trapes.  The  hard  times  oblige  me  to  go 
very  near  in  my  dealing.  To  be  sure,  of  late 
years  I  have  been  a  great  sufferer  by  the 
parliament.— Three  thousand  pounds  would 
hardly  make  me  amends. — The  act  for  de- 
stroying the  mint  was  a  severe  cut  upon  our 
business — 'till  then,  if  a  customer  stept  out 
of  the  way — we  knew  where  to  have  her — No 
doubt  you  know  Mrs.  Coaxer — there's  a 
wench  now  (till  to-day)  with  a  good  suit  of 
clothes  of  mine  upon  her  back,  and  I  could 
never  set  eyes  upon  her  for  three  months 
together.  Since  the  act  too  against  im- 
prisonment for  small  sums,  my  loss  there 
too  hath  been  very  considerable;  and  it  must 
be  so,  when  a  lady  can  borrow  a  handsome 
petticoat,  or  a  clean  gown,  and  I  not  have 
the  least  hank  upon  her!  And,  o'  my  con- 
science, now-a-days  most  ladies  take  a  de- 
light in  cheating,  when  they  can  do  it  with 
safety. 

Peach.  Madam,  you  had  a  handsome  gold 
watch  of  us  t'other  day  for  seven  guineas. 
Considering  we  must  have  our  profit — to  a 
gentleman  upon  the  road,  a  gold  watch  will 
be  scarce  worth  the  taking. 

Trapes.  Consider,  Mr.  Peachum,  that 
watch  was  remarkable  and  not  of  very  safe 
sale.  If  you  have  any  black  velvet  scarfs — 
they  are  handsome  winter  wear;  and  take 
with  most  gentlemen  who  deal  with  my  cus- 
tomers. 'Tis  I  that  put  the  ladies  upon  a 
good  foot.  'Tis  not  youth  or  beauty  that 
fixes  their  price.  The  gentlemen  always  pay 
according  to  their  dress,  from  half  a  crown 
to  two  guineas;  and  yet  those  hussies  make 
nothing  of  bilking  me.  Then,  too,  allowing 
for  accidents— I  have  eleven  fine  customers 
now  down  under  the  surgeon's  hands;  what 
with  fees  and  other  expenses,  there  are 
great  goings-out,  and  no  comings-in,  and  not 
a  farthing  to  pay  for  at  least  a  month's 
clothing.  We  run  great  risks— great  risks 
indeed. 

Peach.  As  I  remember,  you  said  some- 
thing just  now  of  Mrs.  Coaxer. 

Trapes.  Yes,  Sir.  To  be  sure,  I  stript 
her  of  a  suit  of  my  own  clothes  about  two 
hours  ago;  and  have  left  her  as  she  should 
be,  in  her  shift,  with  a  lover  of  hers,  at  my 

265 


ACT  III,  Sc.  VIII. 


THE  BEGGAR'S  OPERA 


bouse.  She  called  him  up  stairs,  as  he  was 
going  to  Marybone  in  a  hackney  coach.  And 
I  hope,  for  her  own  sake  and  mine,  she  will 
persuade  the  captain  to  redeem  her,  for  the 
captain  is  very  generous  to  the  ladies. 

Lock.     What    captain? 

Trapes.  He  thought  I  did  not  know  him— 
an  intimate  acquaintance  of  yours,  Mr. 
Peachum— only  Captain  Macheath— as  fine  as 
•  lord. 

Peach.  To-morrow,  dear  Mrs.  Dye,  you 
shall  set  your  own  price  upon  any  of  the 
goods  you  like.  We  have  at  least  half  a 
dozen  velvet  scarfs,  and  all  at  your  service. 
Will  you  give  me  leave  to  make  you  a 
present  of  this  suit  of  nightclothes  for  your 
own  wearing?  But  are  you  sure  it  is  Captain 
Macheath  ? 

Trapes.  Though  he  thinks  I  have  forgot 
him;  nobody  knows  him  better.  I  have 
taken  a  great  deal  of  the  captain's  money  in 
my  time  at  second-hand,  for  he  always  loved 
to  have  his  ladies  well  drest. 

Peach.  Mr.  Lockit  and  I  have  a  little  busi- 
ness with  the  captain.  You  understand  me. 
And  we  will  satisfy  you  for  Mrs.  Coaxer's 
debt. 

Lock.  Depend  upon  it — we  will  deal  like 
men  of  honor. 

Trapes.  I  don't  enquire  after  your  affairs 
— so  whatever  happens,  I  wash  my  hands 
on't.  It  hath  always  been  my  maxim,  that 
one  friend  should  assist  another.  But  if 
you  please,  I'll  take  one  of  the  scarfs  home 
with  me.  Tis  always  good  to  have  some- 
thing in  hand. 

SCENE  VII 

NEWGATE. 

LUCY. 

Jealousy,  rage,  love  and  fear,  are  at  once 
tearing  me  to  pieces.  How  I  am  weather- 
beaten  and  shattered  with  distresses! 

AIR  XLVII — One   evening,    having  lost  my   way, 
etc. 

I'm  like  a  skiff  on  the  ocean  tost, 
Now  high,  now  low,  with  each  billow  borne, 
With  her  rudder  broke,  and  her  anchor  lost, 
Deserted   and   all    forlorn. 

While  thus  I  lie  rolling  and  tossing  all  night, 
That  Polly  lies  sporting  on  seas  of  delight! 

Revenge,  revenge,  revenge, 
Shall  appease  my  restless  sprite. 

I  have  the  ratsbane  ready.  I  run  no  risk; 
for  I  can  lay  her  death  upon  the  gin,  and  so 
many  die  of  that  naturally  that  I  shall  never 
be  called  in  question.  But  say  I  were  to  be 
hanged — I  never  could  be  hanged  for  any- 
thing that  would  give  me  greater  comfort, 
than  the  poisoning  that  slut.  [Enter  FILCH. 


Filch.     Madam,      here's     our     Miss     Polly 
come  to  wait  upon  you. 
Lucy.     Show  her  in. 

SCENE  VIII 
LUCY,  POLLY. 

Lucy.  Dear  madam,  your  servant.  I  hope 
you  will  pardon  my  passion,  when  I  was  so 
happy  to  see  you  last.  I  was  so  overrun 
with  the  spleen,  that  I  was  perfectly  out  of 
myself.  And  really  when  one  hath  the 
spleen,  everything  is  to  be  excused  by  a 
friend. 

AIR  XLVIII— Now  Roger,  I'll  tell  thee,  because 
thou'rt  my  son. 

When  a  wife's  in  her  pout, 

(As  she's  sometimes,  no  doubt); 

The  good  husband,  as  meek  as  a  lamb, 

Her    vapors    to    still, 

First  grants  her  her  will, 
And  the  quieting  draught  is  a  dram. 
Poor   man!     And   the   quieting  draught   is   a 
dram. 

1  wish  all  our  quarrels  might  have  so 

comfortable  a  reconciliation. 

Polly.  I  have  no  excuse  for  my  own  be- 
havior, madam,  but  my  misfortunes.  And 
really,  madam,  I  suffer  too  upon  your  ac- 
count. 

Lucy.  But,  Miss  Polly — in  the  way  of 
friendship,  will  you  give  me  leave  to  propose 
a  glass  of  cordial  to  you? 

Polly.  Strong  waters  are  apt  to  give  me 
the  headache — I  hope,  madam,  you  will  excuse 
me. 

Lucy.  Not  the  greatest  lady  in  the  land 
could  have  better  in  her  closet,  for  her  own 
private  drinking.  You  seem  mighty  low  in 
spirits,  my  dear. 

Polly.  I  am  sorry,  madam,  my  health  will 
not  allow  me  to  accept  of  your  offer.  I 
should  not  have  left  you  in  the  rude  manner 
I  did  when  we  met  last,  madam,  had  not  my 
papa  hauled  me  away  so  unexpectedly.  I 
was  indeed  somewhat  provoked,  and  per- 
haps might  use  some  expressions  that  were 
disrespectful.  But  really,  madam,  the  cap- 
tain treated  me  with  so  much  contempt  and 
cruelty,  that  I  deserved  your  pity,  rather 
than  your  resentment. 

Lucy.  But  since  his  escape,  no  doubt,  all 
matters  are  made  up  again.  Ah  Polly!  Polly! 
'tis  I  am  the  unhappy  wife;  and  he  loves  you 
as  if  you  were  only  his  mistress. 

Polly.  Sure,  madam,  you  cannot  think  me 
so  happy  as  to  be  the  object  of  your  jealousy. 
A  man  is  always  afraid  of  a  woman  who  loves 
him  too  well — so  that  I  must  expect  to  be 
neglected  and  avoided. 

Lucy.     Then  our  cases,  my  dear  Polly,  are 


286 


THE  BEGGAR'S  OPERA 


ACT  III,  Sc.  XL 


exactly  alike.  Both  of  us,  indeed,  have  been 
too  fond. 

AIR  XLIX — O  Bessy  Bell. 

Polly. 

A  curse  attends  that  woman's  love, 
Who  always  would  be  pleasing. 

Lucy. 

The  pertness  of  the  billing  dove, 
Like  tickling,  is  but  teazing. 

Polly. 

What  then  in  love  can  woman  do? 

Lucy. 

If  we  grow  fond  they  shun  us. 

Polly. 

And  when  we  fly  them,  they  pursue. 

Lucy. 

But  leave  us  when  they've  won  us. 

Lucy.  Love  is  so  very  whimsical  in  both 
sexes,  that  it  is  impossible  to  be  lasting.  But 
my  heart  is  particular,  and  contradicts  my 
own  observation. 

Polly.  But  really,  mistress  Lucy,  by  his 
last  behavior,  I  think  I  ought  to  envy  you. 
When  I  was  forced  from  him,  he  did  not 
shew  the  least  tenderness.  But  perhaps,  he 
hath  a  heart  not  capable  of  it. 

AIR  L — Would  fate  to  me  Belinda  give. 

Among  the  men,  coquets  v:e  find, 
Who  court  by  turns  all  womankind; 
And  we  grant  all  their  hearts  desir'd, 
When  they  are  flatter'd,  and  admir'd. 

The  coquets  of  both  sexes  are  self -lovers,  and 
that  is  a  love  no  other  whatever  can  dis- 
possess. I  fear,  my  dear  Lucy,  our  husband 
is  one  of  those. 

Lucy.  Away  with  these  melancholy  re- 
flections,— indeed,  my  dear  Polly,  we  are 
both  of  us  a  cup  too  low.  Let  me  prevail 
upon  you,  to  accept  of  my  offer. 

AIR  LI — Come,  sweet  lass,  etc. 

Come,  sweet  lass, 
Let's  banish  sorrow 
Till  to-morrow; 
Come,   sweet  lass, 
Let's  take  a  chirping  glass. 
Wine  can  clear 
The   vapors   of   despair; 
And  make  us  light  as  air; 
Then  drink,  and  banish  care. 


I  can't  bear,  child,  to  see  you  in  such  low 
spirits.  And  I  must  persuade  you  to  what  I 
know  will  do  you  good.  I  shall  now  soon  be 
even  with  the  hypocritical  strumpet.  [Aside. 

287 


SCENE  IX 
POLLY. 

Polly.  All  this  wheedling  of  Lucy  cannot 
be  for  nothing.  At  this  time  too,  when  I 
know  she  hates  me!  The  dissembling  of  a 
woman  is  always  the  forerunner  of  mischief. 
By  pouring  strong  waters  down  my  throat, 
she  thinks  to  pump  some  secrets  out  of  me. 
I'll  be  upon  my  guard,  and  won't  taste  a  drop 
of  her  liquor,  I'm  resolved. 


SCENE  X 
LUCY,   with  strong  waters. 


POLLY. 


Lucy.     Come,  Miss   Polly. 

Polly.  Indeed,  child,  you  have  given  your- 
self trouble  to  no  purpose. You  must,  my 

dear,  excuse  me. 

Lucy.  Really,  Miss  Polly,  you  are  as 
squeamishly  affected  about  taking  a  cup  of 
strong  waters  as  a  lady  before  company.  I 
vow,  Polly,  I  shall  take  it  monstrously  ill 
if  you  refuse  me. — Brandy  and  men  (though 
women  love  them  never  so  well)  are  always 

taken  by  us   with   some  reluctance unless 

'tis  in  private. 

Polly.     I   protest,    madam,   it   goes   against 

me. What    do   I    see!     Macheath   again   in 

custody! — Now     every     glimmering     of     hap- 
piness is  lost. 

[Drops  the  glass  of  liquor  on  the  ground. 

Lucy.  Since  things  are  thus,  I  am  glad  the 
wench  hath  escaped:  for  by  this  event,  'tis 
plain,  she  was  not  happy  enough  to  deserve 
to  be  poisoned.  [Aside. 

SCENE  XI 
LOCKIT,    MACHEATH,    PEACHUM,    LUCY,   POLLY. 

Lock.  Set  your  heart  to  rest,  captain. — 
You  have  neither  the  chance  of  love  or 

money    for    another    escape, for    you    are 

ordered   to   be    called   down   upon   your    trial 
immediately. 

Peach.  Away,  hussies !— This  is  not  a 
time  for  a  man  to  be  hampered  with  his 

wives. You  see  the  gentleman  is  in  chains 

already. 

Lucy.  O  husband,  husband,  my  heart 
longed  to  see  thee;  but  to  see  thee  thus  dis- 
tracts me! 

Polly.     Will    not    my    dear    husband    look 
upon  his  Polly?    Why  hadst  thou  not  flown 
to   me   for   protection?   with   me    thou   hadst 
been  safe. 
AIR  LII — The  last  time  I  went  o'er  the  moor. 

Polly. 
Hither,  dear  husband,  turn  your  eyes. 

Lucy. 
Bestow  one  glance  to  cheer  me. 


ACT  III,  Sc.  XII. 


THE  BEGGAR'S  OPERA 


Polly. 
Think,  with  that  look,  thy  Polly  dies. 

Lucy. 
Oh  shun  me  not but  hear  me. 

Polly. 
'Tit  Polly  sues. 

Lucy. 
'Tis  Lucy   speaks. 

Polly. 
Is  thus  true  love  requited? 

Lucy. 
My  heart  is  bursting. 

Polly. 


-Mine  too  breaks. 


Lucy. 
Must  I? 

Polly. 


-Must  I  be  slighted? 


Much.  What  would  you  have  me  say, 

ladies? You  see,  this  affair  will  soon  be 

at  an  end,  without  my  disobliging  either  of 
you. 

Peach.  But  the  settling  this  point,  cap- 
tain, might  prevent  a  law  suit  between  your 
two  widows. 

AIR  LIU — Tom  Tinker's  my  true  love. 

Mach. 
Which   way    shall    I    turn    me?     How   can    I 

decide? 
Wives,  the  day  of  our  death,  are  as  fond  as 

a  bride. 
One  wife  is  too  much  for  most  husbands  to 

hear, 

But  two  at  a  time  there's  no  mortal  can  bear. 
This  way,  and  that  way,  and  which  way  I 

will, 
What    would    comfort    the    one,    t'other    wife 

would   take   ill. 

Polly.     But    if    his    own    misfortunes    have 

made  him  insensible  to  mine a  father  sure 

will  be  more  compassonate.  Dear,  dear  Sir, 
sink  the  material  evidence,  and  bring  him  off 

at  his   trial Polly   upon  her  knees  begs  it 

of  you. 

AIR  LIV — I  am  a  poor  shepherd  undone. 

When  my  hero  in  court  appears, 

And  stands  arraign'd  for  his  life; 
Then  think  of  poor  Polly's  tears; 

For  ah !  poor  Polly's  his  wife. 
Like   the  sailor  he  holds  up  his  hand, 

Distrest  on   the  dashing  wave. 
To  die  a  dry  death  at  land, 

Is  as  bad  as  a  wat'ry  grave. 
And  alas,  poor  Polly; 
Alack,  and  well-a-day! 


Before  I  was  in  love, 

Oh,  every  month  was  May! 

Lucy.  If  Peachum's  heart  is  hardened; 
sure  you,  Sir,  will  have  more  compassion  on 
a  daughter.  I  know  the  evidence  is  in  your 
power.  How  then  can  you  be  a  tyrant  to 
me  ?  IKneeling. 

AIR  LV — lanthe  the  lovely,  etc. 

When  he  holds  up  his  hand  arraign'd  for  his 

life, 
Oh  think  of  your  daughter,  and  think  I'm  his 

wife! 
What  are  cannons,  or  bombs,  or  clashing  of 

swords  ? 
For    death    is    more    certain    by    witnesses' 

words. 
Then  nail  up  their  lips;   that  dread   thunder 

allay; 
And  each  month  of  my  life  will  hereafter  be 

May. 

Lock.  Macheath's  time  is  come,  Lucy.  We 
know  our  own  affairs,  therefore  let  us  have 
no  more  whimpering  or  whining. 

AIR  LVI — A   cobbler  there  was,   etc. 

Ourselves,  like  the  great,  to  secure  a  retreat, 
When   matters  require  it,  must  give  up  our 
gang. 

And  good  reason  why, 

Or  instead  of  the  fry, 

Ev'n  Peachum  and  I, 

Like  poor  petty  rascals,  might  hang,  hang; 
Like  poor  petty  rascals  might  hang. 

Peach.  Set  your  heart  at  rest,  Polly.  Your 
husband  is  to  die  to-day.  Therefore  if  you 
are  not  already  provided,  'tis  high  time  to 
look  about  for  another.  There's  comfort  for 
you,  you  slut. 

Lock.  We  are  ready,  Sir,  to  conduct  you 
to  the  Old  Bailey. 

AIR  LVII — Bonny  Dundee. 

Mach. 

The  charge  is  prepar'd;  the  lawyers  are  met, 
The  judges  all  rang'd  (a  terrible  show!). 
I  go,  undismay'd — for  death  is  a  debt, 
A  debt  on  demand.     So,  take  what  I  owe. 
Then  farewell,  my  love — dear  charmers,  adieu. 
Contented  I  die — 'tis  the  better  for  you. 
Here  ends  all  dispute  the  rest  of  our  lives, 

For  this  way  at  once  I  please  all  my  wives. 

Now,  gentlemen,  I  am  ready   to  attend  you. 


SCENE    XII 
LUCY,   POLLY,  FILCH. 

Polly.     Follow    them,    Filch,    to    the    court. 
And  when  the  trial  is  over,  bring  me  a  par- 


288 


THE  BEGGAR'S  OPERA 


ACT  III,  Sc.  XV. 


ticular  account  of  his  behavior,  and  of 

everything  that  happened. You'll  find  me 

here  with  Miss  Lucy.  [.Exit  FILCH.]  But 
why  is  all  this  music? 

Lucy.  The  prisoners,  whose  trials  are  put 
off  till  next  sessions,  are  diverting  them- 
selves. 

Polly.  Sure  there  is  nothing  so  charming 

as  music!  I'm  fond  of  it  to  distraction! 

But  alas! now,  all  mirth  seems  an  insult 

upon  my  affliction. Let  us  retire,  my  dear 

Lucy,  and  indulge  our  sorrows. The  noisy 

crew,  you  see,  are  coming  upon  us.  [Exeunt. 

A  dance  of  prisoners  in  chains,  etc. 


SCENE   XIII 

THE  CONDEMNED  HOLD. 

MACHEATH,  in  a  melancholy  posture. 

AIR  LVIII — Happy  groves. 

O  cruel,  cruel,  cruel  case! 
Must    I    suffer    this    disgrace? 

AIR    LIX — Of   all   the   girls    that   are   so   smart. 

Of  all  the  friends  in  time  of  grief, 
When  threat'ning  death  looks  grimmer, 

Not  one  so  sure  can  bring  relief, 
As  this  best  friend,  a  brimmer.  [Drinks. 

AIR   LX — Britons,    strike    home. 

Since    I    must    swing, — I    scorn,    I    scorn    to 
wince  or  whine.  [Rises. 

AIR  LXI — Chevy  Chase. 

But  now  again  my  spirits  sink; 
I'll  raise  them  high  with  wine. 

[Drinks  a  glass  of  wine. 

AIR  LXII — To  old  Sir  Simon  the  king. 

But  valor  the  stronger  grows, 

The   stronger   liquor  we're   drinking. 

And  how   can  we  feel  our  woes, 

When  we've  left  the  trouble  of  thinking? 

[Drinks. 

AIR  LXIII — Joy  to  great  C&sar. 

If    thus a    man    can    die. 

Much  bolder  with  brandy. 

[Pours  out  a  bumper  of  brandy. 

AIR  LXIV — There  was   an   old   woman. 

So  I  drink  off  this  bumper. — And  now  I  can 

stand  the  test. 
And    my    comrades    shall    see    that    I    die   as 

brave  as  the  best.  [Drinks. 


AIR  LXV — Did  you  ever  hear  of  a  gallant  sailor. 
But  can  I  leave  my  pretty  hussies, 
Without  one  tear,  or  tender  sigh? 

AIR  LXVI — Why  are  mine  eyes  still  flowing. 
Their  eyes,   their  lips,  their  busses, 
Recall  my  love. Ah,  must  I  die? 

AIR  LXVII — Greensleeves. 
Since  laws  were  made  for  ev'ry  degree, 
To  curb  vice  in  others,  as  well  as  me, 
I  wonder  we  han't  better  company, 

Upon  Tyburn  tree ! 

But  gold  from  law  can  take  out  the  sting; 
And  if  rich  men  like  us  were  to  swing, 
'Twould    thin    the    land,    such    numbers    to 
string 

Upon  Tyburn  tree! 

Jailor.  Some  friends  of  yours,  captain,  de- 
sire to  be  admitted.  I  leave  you  together. 

SCENE  XIV 
MACHEATH,   BEN   BUDGE,   MATT  OF  THE  MINT. 

Mach.  For  my  having  broke  prison,  you 
see,  gentlemen,  I  am  ordered  immediate  ex- 
ecution. The  sheriff's  officers,  I  believe,  are 
now  at  the  door.  That  Jemmy  Twitcher 
should  peach  me,  I  own  surprised  me!  'Tis 
a  plain  proof  that  the  world  is  all  alike,  and 
that  even  our  gang  can  no  more  trust  one 
another  than  other  people.  Therefore,  I  beg 
you,  gentlemen,  look  well  to  yourselves,  for 
in  all  probability  you  may  live  some  months 
longer. 

Matt.  We  are  heartily  sorry,  captain,  for 
your  misfortune. — But  'tis  what  we  must  all 
come  to. 

Mach.  Peachum  and  Lockit,  you  know,  are 
infamous  scoundrels.  Their  lives  are  as 
much  in  your  power,  as  yours  are  in  theirs. 
Remember  your  dying  friend! — Tis  my  last 
request.  Bring  those  villains  to  the  gallows 
before  you,  and  I  am  satisfied. 

Matt.     We'll  do  it. 

Jailor.  Miss  Polly  and  Miss  Lucy  entreat 
a  word  with  you. 

Mach.     Gentlemen,  adieu. 

SCENE  XV 
LUCY,  MACHEATH,  POLLY. 

Mach.  My  dear  Lucy— my  dear  Polly — 
Whatsoever  hath  passed  between  us  is  now 
at  an  end.  If  you  are  fond  of  marrying  again, 
the  best  advice  I  can  give  you,  is  to  ship 
yourselves  off  for  the  West  Indies,  where 
you'll  have  a  fair  chance  of  getting  a  hus- 
band apiece;  or  by  good  luck,  two  or  three, 
as  you  like  best. 

Polly.     How  can  I  support  this  sight? 


289 


ACT  III,  Sc.  XVII. 


THE  BEGGAR'S  OPERA 


Lucy.  There  is  nothing  moves  one  so 
much  as  a  great  man  in  distress. 

AIR  LXVIII — All  you  that  must  take  a  leap,  etc. 

Lucy. 
Would   I  might  be   hang'd! 

Polly. 
And  I  would  so  too! 

Lucy. 
To  be  hang'd  with  you. 

Polly. 
My  dear,  with  you. 

Mach. 

Oh  leave  me  to  thought!     I  fear!     I   doubt! 
I  tremble!    I  droop!— See,  my  courage  is  out. 

[Turns  up  the  empty   bottle. 

Polly.     No    token   of   love? 

Mach.     See,  my  courage  is  out. 

[Turns  up  the  empty  pot. 

Lucy.     No   token   of   love? 

Polly.     Adieu. 

Lucy.     Farewell. 

Mach.  But  hark!  I  hear  the  toll  of  the 
bell! 

Chorus.    Tol  de  rol  lol,  etc. 

Jailor.  Four  women  more,  captain,  with  a 
child  apiece!  See,  here  they  come. 

[Enter  women  and  children. 

Mach.     What four    wives    more! This 

is  too   much. Here tell  the   sheriff's  of- 
ficers I  am  ready.   [Exit  MACHEATH  guarded. 

SCENE  XVI 
To  them  enter  PLAYER,  and  BEGGAR. 

Play.  But,  honest  friend,  I  hope  you  don't 
intend  that  Macheath  shall  be  really  exe- 
cuted. 

Beg.  Most  certainly,  Sir.  To  make  the 
piece  perfect,  I  was  for  doing  strict  poetical 
justice.  Macheath  is  to  be  hanged;  and  for 
the  other  personages  of  the  drama,  the  audi- 
ence must  have  supposed  they  were  all 
either  hanged  or  transported. 

Play.  Why  then,  friend,  this  is  a  down- 
right deep  tragedy.  The  catastrophe  is  mani- 
festly wrong,  for  an  opera  must  end  happily. 

Beg.  Your  objection,  Sir,  is  very  just;  and 
is  easily  removed:  for  you  must  allow,  that 
in  this  kind  of  drama,  'tis  no  matter  how 
absurdly  things  are  brought  about.  So — you 
rabble  there — run  and  cry  a  reprieve! — let 


the  prisoner  be  brought  back  to  his  wives 
in  triumph. 

Play.  All  this  we  must  do,  to  comply  with 
the  taste  of  the  town. 

Beg.  Through  the  whole  piece  you  may 
observe  such  a  similitude  of  manners  in 
high  and  low  life,  that  it  is  difficult  to  deter- 
mine whether  (in  the  fashionable  vices)  the 
fine  gentlemen  imitate  the  gentlemen  of  the 
road,  or  the  gentlemen  of  the  road  the  fine 
gentlemen.  Had  the  play  remained,  as  I  at 
first  intended,  it  would  have  carried  a  most 
excellent  moral.  'T would  have  shown  that 
the  lower  sort  of  people  have  their  vices  in  a 
degree  as  well  as  the  rich;  and  that  they 
are  punished  for  them. 

SCENE  XVII 
To   them  MACHEATH,   with  rabble,  etc. 

Mach.  So,  it  seems,  I  am  not  left  to  my 
choice,  but  must  have  a  wife  at  last.  Look 
ye,  my  dears,  we  will  have  no  controversy 
now.  Let  us  give  this  day  to  mirth,  and  I 
am  sure  she  who  thinks  herself  my  wife  will 
testify  her  joy  by  a  dance. 

All.     Come,  a  dance — a  dance. 

Mach.  Ladies,  I  hope  you  will  give  me 
leave  to  present  a  partner  to  each  of  you. 
And  (if  I  may  without  offence)  for  this  time, 
I  take  Polly  for  mine.  And  for  life,  you 
slut,— for  we  were  really  married.  As  for  th« 
rest — but  at  present  keep  your  own  secret. 

[To  POLLY. 

A  DANCE 
AIR    LXIX — Lumps   of  pudding,    etc. 

Thus  I  stand  like  the  Turk,  with  his  doxies 
around; 

From  all  sides  their  glances  his  passion  con- 
found : 

For  black,  brown,  and  fair,  his  inconstancy 
burns, 

And  the  different  beauties  subdue  him  by 
turns: 

Each  calls  forth  her  charms,  to  provoke  his 
desires: 

Though  willing  to  all,  with  but  one  he  re- 
tires. 

But  think  of  this  maxim,  and  put  off  your 
sorrow, 

The  wretch  of  to-day  may  be  happy  to-mor- 
row. 

Chorus — But  think  of  this  maxim,  etc. 


290 


HENRY   FIELDING 


HENRY  FIELDING  lived  in  the  flourishing  period  of  the  eighteenth  cen-  - 
tury,  before  reason  and  common  sense  in  matters  literary  had  given  way 
to  the  sentimentalism  and  pseudo-romanticism  of  the  later  decades,  and 
he  was  one  of  the  most  robust  representatives  of  this  robust  time.  In  his 
youth  he  went  a  merry  pace,  though  not  quite  to  the  extent  indicated  in 
Thackeray's  engaging  picture,  and  in  his  later  life  with  fearlessness  and 
thoroughness  he  became  as  the  simple  London  magistrate  a  terror  to  evil- 
doers and  a  praise  to  them  that  do  well.  His  abounding  vitality  and  his 
devotion  to  right  kept  him  at  his  task  when  stricken  with  disease;  his 
thoughtfulness  for  others  made  him  forget  his  own  pain  in  theirs,  and  his 
hatred  of  wrong  and  love  of  right  made  him  one  of  the  greatest  satiric 
writers  of  his  age. 

Born  of  good  family  at  Sharpham  Park,  Somerset,  on  April  22,  1707, 
Fielding  was  educated  at  Eton  College  and  at  the  University  of  Leyden, 
where  he  took  his  degree  in  the  Faculty  of  Letters  in  1728.  The  same  year 
he  was  in  London  with  extravagant  tastes  and  an  unpaid  income  of  £200 
a  year.  Like  many  another  youth  of  genius  he  turned  to  the  stage  for 
support  and  produced  with  moderate  success  two  plays  imitative  of  Con- 
greve.  By  1730  he  had  discovered  that  his  bent  lay  towards  satire,  and 
using  his  own  experiences  as  subject  for  farce,  he  wrote  The  Author's 
Farce  and  the  Pleasures  of  the  Town  (1730).  Then  he  made  fun  of 
others  in  his  admirable  burlesque  Tom  Thumb  (1730),  which  after  a  suc- 
cessful run  he  enlarged  and  to  which  he  appended  a  critical  preface  and 
commentary  as  solemn  and  ridiculous  as  the  play,  with  the  title,  The  Tragedy 
of  Tragedies;  or,  The  Life  and  Death  of  Tom  Thumb  the  Great  with  the 
Annotations  of  H.  Scriblerus  Secundus  (1731).  Plays  now  came  thick  and 
fast  but  of  decidedly  second-rate  quality.  In  1736  he  took  over  the  so-called 
French  theatre  in  the  Haymarket  and  presented  his  own  burlesque  Pasquin, 
which  was  modelled  on  The  Rehearsal,  and  is  only  inferior  to  Tom  Thumb. 
The  Historical  Register  for  1736,  which  attacked  Walpole's  corrupt  methods, 
led  to  governmental  interference,  with  the  result  that  the  Licensing  Act  was 
passed  on  June  21,  1737,  and  so  put  an  end  to  Fielding's  direct  connection 
with  the  stage.1 

1  In  addition  to  the  plays  mentioned  above  Fielding  wrote  Love  in 
Several  Masques  (1728);  The  Temple  Beau  (1730);  The  Letter-Writers, 

291 


TOM  THUMB  THE  GREAT 


Fielding  now  began  to  study  law,  and  was  admitted  to  the  bar  in  June, 
1740.  In  the  same  year  his  real  genius  accidentally  discovered  itself  when 
he  undertook  to  parody  Richardson's  Pamela.  Its  sentimentality  and  hot- 
house morality  aroused  Fielding's  masculine  mirth  and  incited  him  to 
depict  a  virtuous  hero  who  would  be  the  fitting  counterpart  to  the  excel- 
lent Pamela.  But  Joseph  Andrews,  the  hero,  soon  came  to  have  an  inde- 
pendent interest  in  the  eyes  of  the  satirist,  and  his  adventures  grew  into  a 
plot  sufficient  in  itself.  Accordingly  we  have  The  History  of  the  Adventures 
of  Joseph  Andrews  (1742),  the  first  great  novel  in  English  literature.  The 
following  year  appeared  three  volumes  of  Miscellanies,  including  A  Journey 
from  This  World  to  the  Next,  and  his  ironical  masterpiece  The  History  of 
the  Life  of  the  Late  Jonathan  Wild  the  Great.  The  death  in  1743  of  his 
wife,  whom  he  had  married  in  1735,  almost  broke  his  heart.  His  sole  con- 
solation was  in  the  sympathetic  grief  of  her  maid,  whose  sorrow  was  only 
less  than  his  own.  Four  years  later  he  married  this  maid  and  lived  hap- 
pily with  her  till  his  death,  despite  the  vilest  kind  of  calumnies,  directed 
against  them  both.  Meanwhile  he  is  writing  political  articles  for  The  True 
Patriot  and  The  Jacobite's  Journal,  and  is  practising  his  profession.  In 
December,  1748,  he  was  made  Justice  of  the  Peace  for  Westminster,  and 
henceforth  till  within  a  few  months  of  his  death  he  spent  laborious  days 
putting  down  crime  so  that  there  was  in  London,  it  was  said,  "not  even 
no  such  thing  as  a  murder,  but  not  even  a  street  robbery." 

His  greatest  work,  the  supreme  novel  of  the  century,  The  History  of 
Tom  Jones,  A  Foundling,  was  published  in  February,  1749,  and  was  at 
once  acclaimed  at  its  true  worth.  Amelia,  his  last  novel,  was  published  in 
December,  1751.  There  are  two  testimonials  to  the  contemporary  apprecia- 
tion of  the  work :  Johnson  stayed  up  all  night  to  read  it  through,  and 
Fielding's  publisher  paid  him  £1000  for  it  and  lost  nothing  by  the  transac- 
tion. Journalistic  work  and  his  untiring  zeal  as  a  magistrate  kept  him  busy 
till  ill  health  demanded  rest.  With  his  wife  and  eldest  daughter  he  sailed 
for  Lisbon  on  June  26,  1754,  but  he  reached  his  destination  only  to  die 
there  on  October  8.  The  charming  and  pathetic  record  of  the  journey  is 
the  last  product  of  his  pen. 

During  the  period  covered  by  the  plays  in  our  volume  there  appeared 
three  notable  burlesques  on  the  drama  and  on  dramatic  conditions,  Buck- 
ingham's Rehearsal  (1671),  Fielding's  Tom  Thumb  (1731),  and  Sheridan's 
The  Critic  (1779).  The  first  was  intended  more  as  a  personal  attack  on 
Dryden  than  as  a  burlesque  of  the  heroic  play ;  the  second  was  a  joyous 
satire  on  dramatists  and  critics  for  their  creative  and  critical  absurdities ; 

The  Grub-Street  Opera,  The  Lottery  (1731);  The  Modern  Husband,  The 
Debauchees,  The  Covent-Garden  Tragedy,  The  Mock  Doctor  (1732)  ;  The 
Miser .  an  adaptation  of  Moliere's  L'Avare,  Deborah  (1733)  ;  The  Intriguing 
Chambermaid,  Don  Quixote  in  England  (1734)  ;  The  Virgin  Unmasked, 
The  Universal  Gallant  (1735)  ;  Eurydice.  Eurydice  Hissed  (1737)  ;  The 
Wedding  Day  (1743);  Tumble-Down  Dick  (1744). 

292 


TOM  THUMB  THE  GREAT 


the  third  was  a  lively  attack  on  would-be  patrons  of  the  stage,  affected 
authors,  and  the  bombastic  style  of  the  contemporary  drama.  The  first 
and  third  present  the  rehearsal  of  a  play  with  the  comments  and  criticisms 
of  interested  spectators;  the  second  is  a  pure  mock-heroic  burlesque  with 
learned  footnotes  parodying  the  erudite  commentaries  of  scholars  and 
ironically  justifying  extravagant  diction  in  dramatic  productions. 

When  Buckingham  produced  his  Rehearsal,  Dryden's  Conquest  of 
Granada,  the  greatest  of  the  heroic  plays,  was  on  the  crest  of  its  popu- 
larity. A  very  keen  eye  was,  however,  not  required  to  see  the  possibilities 
of  ridicule  in  the  extravagances  of  Almanzor  and  his  kind,  and  since  per- 
sonal enmity  was  the  real  motive,  Buckingham  entered  into  the  fun  of 
his  burlesque  with  malicious  zest.  He  represents  Dryden  as  a  fool  and 
a  knave,  who  steals  his  ideas  and  keeps  a  mistress,  and  who  makes  no 
secret  of  either  offence.  Bayes  (as  Dryden  is  called)  follows  purely  mechan- 
ical methods  in  constructing  his  plays,  is  awkward  in  his  technique,  and  is 
extravagant  in  his  diction,  but  with  it  all  he  is  highly  complacent.  He 
clumsily  .conveys  information  to  his  audience,  he  subordinates  plot  to  fine 
speeches,  he  fails  to  motivate  events  and  he  confuses  his  audience  by  hope- 
lessly confounding  events  and  characters.  He  unwittingly  amuses  his 
critics  with  his  "  snip-snap "  dialogue,  his  reasoning  in  verse,  and  his 
portrayal  of  the  eternal  conflict  between  love  and  honor,  which  he  reduces 
to  an  absurdity.  He  seriously  presents  scenes  of  impossible  operatic  mag- 
nificence and  a  stupendous  battle  is  waged  by  two  single  contestants. 
Above  all,  he  surpasses  Almanzor  in  Drawcansir,  who  can 

"  make  proud  Jove,  with  all  his  thunder,  see 
This  single  arm  more  dreadful  is  than  he." 

Sheridan  gratified  no  personal  spite  when  he  wrote  The  Critic.  The 
patron  of  the  stage  as  presented  in  Dangle  is  an  ever-living  type  and  is 
drawn  from  no  special  individual ;  Sir  Fretful  Plagiary,  who  stands  for 
Cumberland,  the  boresome  author  of  sentimental  plays,  is  portrayed  with 
much  truth  but  without  malice.  Sheridan  was  interested  in  satirizing 
not  persons  but  classes,  the  puffing  critics,  the  jealous  and  vain  play- 
wrights, and  in  ridiculing  absurd  dramatic  ideas  and  methods.  So  he 
took  a  final  fling  at  the  sentimental  drama,  which  he  had  wounded  unto 
death  in  his  other  plays :  "  The  theatre  in  proper  hands,"  says  Sneer,  the 
conventional  critic,  "might  certainly  be  made  the  school  of  morality;  but 
now,  I  am  sorry  to  say  it,  people  seem  to  go  there  principally  for  their  en- 
tertainment." Like  Buckingham,  Sheridan  ridicules  the  awkwardness  of 
many  a  dramatist  in  conveying  necessary  information  to  his  audience,  the 
lack  of  connection  between  the  two  plots  of  many  tragedies,  the  mixture  of 
the  love  motive  with  the  historical  without  regard  to  dramatic  unity.  He 
ridicules  stock  situations,  as  when  a  deadlock  is  suddenly  broken,  a  hidden 
identity  is  revealed,  a  disguise  is  thrown  off, — all  in  order  that  complica- 

293 


TOM  THUMB  THE  GREAT 


tions  may  be  unravelled.  He  parodies  flowery  diction,  prayers  to  Mars 
before  battle,  dialogue  in  single-word  speeches,  a  dying  speech  cut  short  in 
the  middle  of  a  word.  He  interprets  a  "  thinking  part "  as  conveying  pro- 
found thought.  He  brings  in  scenes  of  splendor  and  mad  scenes  of  utter 
gibberish,  and  he  ends  with  the  usual  spectacle  of  a  battle,  in  which,  on  this 
occasion,  the  enemies  of  England  are  routed. 

In  form  Fielding's  Tom  Thumb  differs  entirely  from  the  other  two 
burlesques.  It  is  written  throughout  in  the  mock-heroic  style  and  is  more 
properly  a  burlesque  in  that  it  is  modelled  on  the  heroic  play  that  it 
parodies  and  in  that  the  plot  and  the  diction  of  such  a  play  are  reduced 
to  complete  absurdity.  The  ridicule  is  directed  chiefly  against  the  heroic 
play,  but  Fielding  does  not  limit  himself  to  this  type.  His  range  extends 
from  Fletcher  to  Thomson,  over  nearly  a  century  of  dramatic  production. 
The  flourishing  period  of  the  heroic  play  was  the  first  twenty-five  years 
after  the  Restoration,  but  the  type  persisted  well  into  the  eighteenth 
century.  Extravagance  in  plot  and  bombast  in  diction  prevailed  in  tragedy 
throughout  the  early  decades  of  the  century;  it  was  only  in  comedy  that 
effective  work  was  being  done.  Accordingly,  we  are  not  surprised  to 
find  Fielding  with  his  keen  scent  for  the  absurd  exposing  the  extrava- 
gances of  the  contemporary  stage. 

The  events  of  the  burlesque  are  essentially  those  of  the  heroic  play. 
The  hero  returns  victorious  with  the  captive  queen ;  the  king,  for  whom 
the  hero  has  successfully  fought,  falls  in  love  with  the  captive  queen, 
while  his  own  queen  becomes  enamored  of  the  hero;  the  hero,  however, 
demands  as  his  reward  the  hand  of  the  king's  daughter.  Hence  follow  the 
usual  complications.  We  have  also  prophecies  of  woe,  a  casual  murder 
by  the  hero  to  avenge  an  insult  to  his  friend,  a  ghost  scene  in  which  dis- 
aster is  foretold,  a  rebellion  raised  by  the  disappointed  rival  of  the  hero, 
a  magnificent  battle  in  which  the  rebellion  is  crushed,  the  celebration  of  the 
victory,  the  sudden  tragic  end  of  the  hero,  and  the  extermination  of  every 
one  else. 

Here  we  have  mighty  events  and  an  heroic  character  forming  the 
basis  for  parody.  The  names  of  the  personages  betray  at  the  outset  the 
burlesque  intent,  Tom  Thumb  as  the  hero,  Dollallolla  as  the  queen,  Hun- 
camunca  as  the  princess,  not  to  mention  lesser  ones.  So  also  in  the  list  of 
the  dramatis  persona  the  characters  are  described  in  the  mock-heroic 
fashion :  the  noble  Arthur  "  stands  a  little  in  fear "  of  his  queen ;  Dolla- 
lolla  is  "entirely  faultless,  saving  that  she  is  a  little  given  to  drink"; 
Huncamunca  is  ready  to  marry  both  her  lovers.  In  the  action  of  the  play 
the  mighty  hero  is  the  diminutive  Tom  Thumb,  who  is  so  valiant  in  war 
that  "  millions  of  giants  crowd  his  chariot  wheels."  The  queen  celebrates 
a  glorious  victory  by  getting  drunk  on  arrack  punch ;  her  passion  finds 
expression  in  choice  billingsgate ;  when  her  honor  conflicts  with  her  love, 
so  much  the  worse  for  her  honor. 

294 


TOM  THUMB  THE  GREAT 


So  complete  was  Fielding's  burlesque  of  the  conventional  ghost  scene 
that  it  provoked  laughter  in  Swift,  who  declared  that  he  "  had  not  laughed 
above  twice  "  in  his  life,  once  at  the  tricks  of  a  merry-andrew  and  again, 
as  Mrs.  Pilkington  inaccurately  reported,  when  Tom  Thumb  killed  the 
ghost.  The  pure  fustian  that  the  ghost  utters  is  hardly  more  absurd  than 
the  foolish  bombast  of  the  heroic  ghost.  Delightfully  comic  is  the  im- 
patient interruption  of  the  king  upon  the  ghost's  lengthy  and  solemn 
tirade,  in  which  he  enumerates  the  things  he  has  seen.  Here  it  was  that 
Swift  laughed: 

"  D n  all  that  thou  hast  seen ! — dost  thou,  beneath  the  shape 

Of  Gaffer  Thumb,  come  hither  to  abuse  me 

With  similes,  to  keep  me  on  the  rack? 

Hence — or,  by  all  the  torments  of  thy  hell, 

I'll  run  thee  through  the  body,  though  thou'st  none." 

The  tragic  issue  of  the  burlesque  differs  from  the  end  in  the  heroic 
play;  in  the  latter  the  hero  is  triumphant  and  only  his  enemies  are  slain. 
Fielding  saw  here,  however,  an  admirable  opportunity  to  satirize  the  whole- 
sale slaughter  in  contemporary  tragedies ;  he  accordingly  brings  in  wholly 
without  motivation  the  grotesque  destruction  of  the  hero  in  the  jaws  of  the 
red  cow,  and  the  murders  of  all  the  others  in  orderly  succession. 

Hilarious  laughter  must  have  greeted  this  play  when  it  was  acted 
before  an  audience  that  could  stand  pretty  strong  parody.  The  dramatic 
disease  called  for  a  powerful  remedy.  Fielding  was,  however,  not  satisfied 
with  an  appeal  to  a  theatrical  audience  only;  he  wished  to  reach  readers 
as  well,  and  for  their  benefit  he  prefixed  a  learned  preface  and  appended 
footnotes,  all  of  an  apparently  solemn  and  painstaking  nature.  He  had  to 
his  hand  a  burlesque  that  exactly  suited  his  purpose.  Dr.  William  Wag- 
staffe  had  written  in  1711  a  parody  of  Addison's  appreciation  of  the  ballads 
of  Chevy  Chase  and  The  Children  of  the  Wood,  which  he  called  A  Comment 
upon  the  History  of  Tom  Thumb  and  which  was  included  in  the  collected 
edition  of  his  Miscellaneous  Works  (1726).  Like  Addison  he  quotes  from 
the  ballad  and  he  supports  his  judgments  by  means  of  parallel  passages 
from  the  Latin  poets.  He  also  inserts  in  italics  passages  from  Addison's 
prose  works  in  order  to  heighten  the  comic  effect.  Fielding's  preface  and 
notes  are  much  the  same  in  character  as  Wagstaffe's.  Learned  authorities 
are  quoted  from  ancient  and  modern  times ;  Latin  quotations  abound. 
Verbal  emendations  are  suggested  after  the  fashion  of  Bentley's  to  Paradise 
Lost.  Parallel  passages,  plagiarisms,  and  the  like  are  noted  with  scrupulous 
detail.  Speeches  of  special  beauty  are  pointed  out  by  this  highly  appreciative 
editor,  and  the  carping  criticisms  of  hostile  critics  are  properly  scorned. 
The  so-called  critical  material  is  wholly  without  malice;  it  is  satirical  of 
authors  and  critics  for  their  work  and  not  for  personal  failings  or  mis- 
fortunes. Fielding's  delightful  irony  penetrates  throughout. 

295 


TOM  THUMB  THE  GREAT 


The  burlesque  was  reworked  and  made  into  a  burletta  by  Kane  O'Hara 
in  1830;  .songs  were  added  and  the  satirical  element  was  largely  lost 
sight  of.  In  this  form  the  play  kept  the  stage  till  well  towards  the  close 
p/f  the  nineteenth  century. 

THE  TRAGEDY  OF  TRAGEDIES 

OR,  THE 

LIFE  AND  DEATH  OF  TOM  THUMB 


M^ 
fi^  \^ 


THE  GREAT 

With  the  Annotations  of 
H.  SCRIBLERUS  SECUNDUS 

FIRST  ACTED  IN  1730,  AND  ALTERED  IN  1731 


DRAMATIS  PERSONS 


MEN 


KING  ARTHUR,  a  passionate  sort  of  king,  hus- 
band to  QUEEN  DOLLALLOLLA,  of  whom  he 
stands  a  little  in  fear;  father  to  HUNCA- 
MUNCA,  whom  he  is  very  fond  of  and  in 
love  with  GLUMDALCA. 

TOM  THUMB  THE  GREAT,  a  little  hero  with  a 
great  soul,  something  violent  in  his  temper, 
u-hich  is  a  little  abated  by  his  love 

for     HUNCAMUNCA. 

GHOST  OF  GAFFER  THUMB,  a  whimsical  sort  of 
Ghost. 

LORD  GRIZZLE,  extremely  zealous  for  the  lib- 
erty of  the  subject,  very  choleric  in  his 
temper,  and  in  love  with  HUNCAMUNCA. 

MERLIN,  a  conjurer,  and  in  some  sort  father 
to  TOM  THUMB. 

NOODLE,  »  courtiers  in  place,  and  consequently 

DOODLE,  f      of  that  party   that  is  uppermost. 

FOODLE,  a  courtier  that  is  out  of  place,  and 
consequently  of  that  party  that  is  under- 
most. 

FrowER^k    »»*"»    of    the   Plaintiff. 
PARSON,  of  the  side   of  the   church. 

Courtiers,    Guards,    Rebels,    Drums,    Trumpets,    Thunder  and  Lightning. 

SCENE. — THE  COURT  OF  KING  ARTHUR,  AND  A 
PLAIN  THEREABOUTS. 


WOMEN 


QUEEN  DOLLALLOLLA,  wife  to  KING  ARTHUR, 
and  mother  to  HUNCAMUNCA,  a  woman  en- 
tirely faultless,  saving  that  she  is  a  little 
given  to  drink,  a  little  too  much  a  virago  to- 
wards her  husband,  and  in  love  with  TOM 
THUMB. 

THE  PRINCESS  HUNCAMUNCA,  daughter  to  their 
Majesties  KING  ARTHUR  and  QUEEN 
DOLLALLOLLA,  of  a  very  sweet,  gentle,  and 
amorous  disposition,  equally  in  love  with 
LORD  GRIZZLE  and  TOM  THUMB,  and  de- 
sirous to  be  married  to  them  both. 

GLUMDALCA,  of  the  giants,  a  captive  queen, 
beloved  by  the  king,  but  in  love  with 
TOM  THUMB. 

CLEORA,  MUSTACHA,  maids  of  honor  in  love 
with  NOODLE  and  DOODLE. 


296 


TOM  THUMB  THE  GREAT 


ACT  I,  Sc.  I. 


ACT  I 

SCENE    I 
The   Palace. — DOODLE,    NOODLE. 

Doodle.     Sure    such    a  *    day    as    this    was 

never   seen ! 

The   sun  himself,  on  this  auspicious   day, 
Shines     like     a     beau     in     a     new     birth-day 

suit: 
This   down  the   seams   embroidered,   that  the 

beams. 
All  nature  wears  one  universal  grin. 

Nood.  This  day,  O  Mr.  Doodle,  is  a  day 
Indeed! — A  day,-  we  never  saw  before. 

1  Corneille  recommends  some  very  remark- 
able day  wherein  to  fix  the  action  of  a 
tragedy.  This  the  best  of  our  tragical 
writers  have  understood  to  mean  a  day  re- 
markable for  the  serenity  of  the  sky,  or  what 
we  generally  call  a  fine  summer's  day:  so 
that,  according  to  this  their  exposition,  the 
same  months  are  proper  for  tragedy  which 
are  proper  for  pastoral.  Most  of  our  cele- 
brated English  tragedies,  as  Cato,  Mariamne, 
Tamerlane,  &c.,  begin  with  their  observations 
on  the  morning.  Lee  seems  to  have  come 
the  nearest  to  this  beautiful  description  of 
our  author's: 

The  morning  dawns  with  an  unwonted  crim- 
son, 
The    flowers    all    odorous    seem,    the    garden 

birds 

Sing  louder,  and  the  laughing  sun  ascends 
The  gaudy  earth  with  an  unusual  brightness: 


All   nature    smiles. 


Cces.    Borg. 


Massinissa,  in  the  New  Sophonisba,  is  also 
a  favorite  of  the  sun: 

—The  sun  too  seems 

As  conscious  of  my  joy,  with  broader  eye 
To  look  abroad  the  world,  and  all  things 

smile 
Like  Sophonisba. 

Memnon,  in  the  Persian  Princess,  makes 
the  sun  decline  rising,  that  he  may  not  peep 
on  objects  which  would  profane  his  bright- 
ness: 

—The   morning   rises    slow, 
And    all    those    ruddy    streaks    that    used    to 

paint 

The  day's  approach  are  lost  in  clouds,  as  if 
The  horrors  of  the  night  had  sent  'em  back, 
To  warn  the  sun  he  should  not  leave  the 

sea, 
To  peep,   &c. 

2  This    line    is    highly    conformable    to    the 
beautiful  simplicity  of  the  ancients.    It  hath 
been  copied  by  almost  every  modern. 
Not   to  be   is   not   to   be   in   woe. 

State   of  Innocence. 


The     mighty 3     Thomas     Thumb      victorious 

comes; 

Millions  of  giants   crowd  his   chariot  wheels, 
4  Giants !  to  whom  the  giants  in  Guildhall 
Are   infant   dwarfs.     They   frown,    and    foam, 

and  roar. 
While     Thumb,    regardless     of     their     noise, 

rides  on. 

So  some  cock-sparrow  in  a  farmer's  yard, 
Hops  at   the   head   of  an   huge   flock   of   tur- 
keys. 

Dood.     When   Goody   Thumb   first  brought 
this  Thomas  forth, 

Love  is  not  sin  but  where  'tis  sinful  love. 
Don   Sebastian. 
Nature    is    nature,    Lxlius. 

Sophonisba. 

Men  are  but  men,  we  did  not  make  our- 
selves. Revenge. 
8  Dr.    B— y    reads,    The    mighty    Tall-mast 


Thumb. 
Thumb. 


Mr.    D— s,    The    rriighty    Thumbing 
Mr.    T— d     reads,     Thundering.      I 


think   Thomas   more   agreeable    to    the    great 
simplicity  so  apparent  in  our  author. 

4  That  learned  historian  Mr.  S— n,  in  the 
third  number  of  his  criticism  on  our  author, 
takes  great  pains  to  explode  this  passage. 
"  It  is,"  says  he,  "  difficult  to  guess  what 
giants  are  here  meant,  unless  the  giant 
Despair  in  the  Pilgrim's  Progress,  or  the  giant 
Greatness  in  the  Royal  Villain;  for  I  have 
heard  of  no  other  sort  of  giants  in  the  reign 
of  king  Arthur."  Petrus  Burmannus  makes 
three  Tom  Thumbs,  one  whereof  he  supposes 
to  have  been  the  same  person  whom  the 
Greeks  call  Hercules;  and  that  by  these 
giants  are  to  be  understood  the  Centaurs 
slain  by  that  hero.  Another  Tom  Thumb 
he  contends  to  have  been  no  other  than  the 
Hermes  Trismegistus  of  the  ancients.  The 
third  Tom  Thumb  he  places  under  the  reign 
of  king  Arthur;  to  which  third  Tom  Thumb, 
says  he,  the  actions  of  the  other  two  were 
attributed.  Now,  though  I  know  that  this 
opinion  is  supported  by  an  assertion  of 
Justus  Lipsius,  "  Thomam  ilium  Thumbum 
non  alium  quam  Herculem  fuisse  satis  con- 
stat,"  yet  shall  I  venture  to  oppose  one  line 
of  Mr.  Midwinter  against  them  all: 

In   Arthur's   court   Tom   Thumb   did   live. 

"  But  then,"  says  Dr.  B — y,  "  if  we  place 
Tom  Thumb  in  the  court  of  king  Arthur,  it 
will  be  proper  to  place  that  court  out  of 
Britain,  where  no  giants  were  ever  heard  of." 
Spenser,  in  his  Fairy  Queen,  is  of  another 
opinion,  where,  describing  Albion,  he  says, 

Far   within  a   savage  nation  dwelt 

Of  hideous   giants. 

And   in   the   same  canto: 
Then  Elfar,  with  two  brethren  giants  had, 
The  one   of   which    had    two   heads — 
The   other   three. 

Risum    teneatis,    amici. 


297 


ACT  I,  Sc.  II. 


TOM  THUMB  THE  GREAT 


The  Genius  of  our  land   triumphant  reigned; 

Then,  then,  O  Arthur!  did  thy  Genius  reign. 

Nood.     They    tell    me    it   is  •    whispered    in 

the  books 

Of  all  our  sages,   that  this  mighty  hero, 
By   Merlin's  art  begot,  hath  not  a  bone 
Within   his   skin,   but   is   a   lump   of   gristle. 
Dood.     Then    'tis    a    gristle    of    no    mortal 

kind; 

Some  God,   my   Noodle,   stept   into   the   place 
Of  Gaffer  Thumb,   and  more   than "   half   be- 
got 
This   mighty   Tom. 

Nood.  ~ — Sure  he  was  sent  express 

From  Heaven  to  be  the  pillar  of  our  state. 
Though  small  his  body  be,  so  very  small, 
A  chairman's  leg  is  more  than  twice  as 

large, 

Yet   is  his   soul  like  any  mountain  big; 
And    as    a    mountain    once    brought    forth    a 

mouse, 
8  So     doth     this     mouse     contain     a     mighty 

mountain. 
Dood.     Mountain   indeed!     So    terrible   his 

name, 

6 "  To  whisper  in  books,"  says  Mr.  D—  s, 
"  is  arrant  nonsense."  I  am  afraid  this 
learned  man  does  not  sufficiently  understand 
the  extensive  meaning  of  the  word  whisper. 
If  he  had  rightly  understood  what  is  meant 
by  the  "  senses  whispering  the  soul,"  in  the 
Persian  Princess,  or  what  "  whispering  like 
winds  "  is  in  Aurengzebe,  or  like  thunder  in 
another  author,  he  would  have  understood 
this.  Emmeline  in  Dryden  sees  a  voice,  but 
she  was  born  blind,  which  is  an  excuse 
Panthea  cannot  plead  in  Cyrus,  who  hears  a 
sight: 

Your    description    will    surpass 

All  fiction,  painting,  or  dumb  show  of  horror, 
That  ever  ears  yet  heard,  or  eyes  beheld. 

When  Mr.  D — s  understands  these,   he  will 
understand    whispering   in   books. 
•  —Some  ruffian  stept  into  his  father's  place, 
And   more   than    half  begot   him. 

Mary  Queen    of  Scots. 
T  — For    Ulamar    seems    sent    express    from 

Heaven, 
To   civilize    this    rugged    Indian   clime. 

Liberty  Asserted. 

* "  Omne  majus  continet  in  se  minus,  sed 
minus  non  in  se  majus  continere  potest," 
says  Scaliger  in  Thumbo.  I  suppose  he 
would  have  cavilled  at  these  beautiful  lines 
in  the  Earl  of  Essex: 

— Thy    most   inveterate   soul, 
That   looks   through    the   foul   prison   of    thy 

body. 
And    at   those   of   Dryden: 

The  palace  is   without  too  well  designed; 

Conduct  me  in,  for  I  will  view  thy  mind. 
Aurengzebe. 


*  The  giant  nurses  frighten  children  with  it, 
And    cry   Tom    Thumb    is   come,    and   if   you 

are 

Naughty,    will    surely    take    the    child   away. 
Nood.     But   hark !  "'   these   trumpets   speak 

the    king's    approach. 

Dood.     He    comes    most    luckily    for    my 
petition.  [Flourish. 

SCENE    II 
KING,      QUEEN,     GRIZZLE,      NOODLE,     DOODLE, 

FOODLE. 

King.     u  Let  nothing  but  a  face  of  joy  ap- 
pear; 

The  man  who  frowns  this  day  shall  lose  his 
head, 

That  he  may   have  no  face   to  frown   withal. 

Smile   DollalloIIa— Ha !   what   wrinkled   sorrow 

1  -'  Hangs,   sits,   lies,  frowns   upon  thy  knitted 
brow? 

Whence  flow  those  tears  fast  down  thy  blub- 
bered cheeks, 

Like    a    swoln    gutter,    gushing    through    the 

streets  ? 

Queen.     13  Excess    of    joy,    my    lord,    I've 
heard  folks   say, 

Gives  tears  as  certain  as  excess  of  grief. 
King.     If    it    be    so,    let    all    men    cry    for 
joy, 

9  Mr.   Banks   hath   copied   this    almost    ver- 
batim: 

It  was  enough   to  say,  here's   Essex   come, 
And    nurses    stilled    their    children    with    the 
fright.  Earl  of  Essex. 

10  The  trumpet  in  a  tragedy  is  generally  as 
much    as    to    say    Enter    king,    which    makes 
Mr.    Banks,   in  one  of  his   plays,   call   it   the 
trumpet's    formal    sound. 

11  Phraortes,  in  the  Captives,  seems  to  have 
been    acquainted    with    king   Arthur: 
Proclaim   a  festival   for   seven   days'   space, 
Let    the    court    shine    in    all    its    pomp    and 

lustre, 
Let   all   our   streets    resound   with    shouts    of 

joy; 

Let    music's    care-dispelling    voice   be    heard; 
The     sumptuous    banquet    and     the     flowing 

goblet 
Shall  warm  the  cheek  and  fill  the  heart  with 

gladness. 

Astarbe    shall    sit    mistress   of   the    feast. 
12  Repentance  frowns  on  thy  contracted  brow. 

Sophonisba. 

Hung  on  his  clouded  brow,  I  marked  despair. 

Ibid. 

— A  sullen  gloom 

Scowls   on    his    brow.  Busiris. 

13  Plato   is    of   this   opinion,    and    so   is   Mr. 

Banks: 

Behold    these    tears    sprung   from   fresh   pain 
and   joy.  Earl  of  Essex. 


298 


TOM  THUMB  THE  GREAT 


ACT  I,  Sc.  III. 


14  Till  my  whole  court  be  drowned  with  their 

tears ; 

Nay,  till  they  overflow  my  utmost  land, 
And   leave   me   nothing   but   the   sea    to   rule. 
Dood.     My    liege,    I    a    petition    have    here 

got. 

King.  Petition  me  no  petitions,  sir,  to-day: 
Let  other  hours  be  set  apart  for  business. 
To-day  it  is  our  pleasure  to  be  '"'  drunk. 

14  These    floods    are    very    frequent    in    the 
tragic    authors: 

Near  to   some  murmuring  brook  I'll  lay   me 

down, 
Whose    waters,    if    they    should    too    shallow 

flow, 

My    tears    shall    swell    them    up    till    I    will 

drown.  LEE'S  Sophonisba. 

Pouring    forth    tears    at    such    a   lavish   rate, 

That  were  the  world  on  fire  they  might  have 

drowned 

The    wrath    of    heaven,     and    quenched    the 
mighty   ruin.  Mithridates. 

One  author  changes  the  waters  of  grief  to 
those  of  joy: 

These     tears,     that     sprung    from 

tides  of  grief, 
Are    now    augmented    to    a    flood    of   joy. 

Cyrus    the    Great. 
Another: 
Turns    all    the    streams   of   heat,    and    makes 

them    flow 

In  pity's  channel.  Royal  Villain. 

One  drowns  himself: 

Pity  like  a   torrent  pours  me  down, 

Now   I   am   drowning   all   within    a   deluge. 

Anne   Bullen. 

Cyrus    drowns   the   whole   world: 
Our   swelling   grief 

Shall  melt   into  a   deluge,   and   the   world 
Shall    drown    in    tears.        Cyrus    the    Great. 

15  An  expression  vastly  beneath  the  dignity 
of  tragedy,   says   Mr.    D — s,   yet   we   find   the 
word  he  cavils  at  in  the  mouth  of  Mithridates 
less    properly    used,    and    applied    to    a   more 
terrible    idea: 

I  would   be   drunk   with   death. 

Mithridates. 

The    author    of    the    new    Sophonisba    taketh 
hold  of  this  monosyllable,  and  uses  it  pretty 
much   to   the   same  purpose: 
The  Carthaginian  sword  with  Roman  blood 
Was  drunk. 

I  would  ask  Mr.  D— s  which  gives  him  the 
best  idea,  a  drunken  king,  or  a  drunken 
sword? 

Mr.  Tate  dresses  up  king  Arthur's  resolu- 
tion   in    heroic: 
Merry,     my     lord,     o'     th'     captain's     humor 

right, 

I  am  resolved  to  be  dead  drunk  to-night. 
Lee   also    uses    this    charming    word: 

Love's   the   drunkenness   of   the   mind. 

Gloriana. 


And     this     our    queen     shall     be     as     drunk 

as  we. 

Queen.     (Though  I  already  le  half  seas  over 
am) 

If  the  capacious  goblet  overflow 

With    arrack    punch— 'fore    George!    I'll    see 
it   out: 

Of  rum  and  brandy  I'll  not  taste  a  drop. 
King.     Though   rack,  in  punch,   eight  shil- 
lings be  a  quart, 

And   rum  and  brandy  be   no  more   than   six, 

Rather  than  quarrel  you  shall  have  your  will. 

[Trumpets. 

But,   ha!  the  warrior  comes— the   great  Tom 
Thumb. 

The   little    hero,    giant-killing    boy, 

Preserver    of    my    kingdom,    is    arrived. 

SCENE   III 

TOM  THUMB  to  them,  with  Officers,  Prisoners, 
and  Attendants. 

King.     "  Oh !  welcome  most,  most  welcome 

to  my  arms. 

What  gratitude  can  thank  away  the  debt 
Your    valor   lays   upon    me? 

Queen.     18Oh!    ye    gods!        [Aside. 

Thumb.     When  I'm  not  thanked  at  all,  I'm 

thanked  enough. 

19  I've  done  my  duty,  and  I've  done  no  more. 

Queen.     Was  ever  such  a  godlike  creature 

seen?  [Aside. 

King.     Thy    modesty's    a    m  candle    to    thy 

merit, 

It  shines  itself,  and  shows  thy  merit  too. 
But  say,  my  boy,  where  didst  thou  leave  the 

giants  ? 
Thumb.     My  liege,  without  the  castle  gates 

they   stand, 

The    castle    gates    too    low    for    their    admit- 
tance. 
King.     What   look    they   like? 

18  Dryden   hath  borrowed   this,   and   applied 
it    improperly: 

I'm   half    seas    o'er   in    death. 

Cleomenes. 

17  This    figure    is    in    great    use   among    the 
tragedians: 

'Tis    therefore,   therefore    'tis. 

Victim. 
I  long,  repent,  repent,  and  long  again. 

Busiris. 

18  A    tragical    exclamation. 

19  This     line     is     copied     verbatim     in     the 
Captives. 

20  We  find  a  candlestick   for  this   candle  in 
two    celebrated    authors: — 

— Each    star    withdraws 
His     golden     head,     and     burns     within     the 
socket.  Nero. 

A  soul  grown  old  and  sunk  into  the  socket. 

Sebastian. 


299 


ACT  I,  Sc.  III. 


TOM  THUMB  THE  GREAT 


Thumb.     Like   nothing   but    themselves. 

Queen.     ->  And   sure   thou   art  like  nothing 

but   thyself.  [Aside. 

King.     Enough!  the  vast  idea  fills  my  soul. 

I  see  them — yes,  I  see  them  now  before  me: 

The     monstrous,     ugly,     barb'rous     sons     of 

whores. 

But  ha!  what  form  majestic  strikes  our  eyes? 
--  So  perfect,  that  it  seems  to  have  been 

drawn 

By  all  the  gods  in  council:  so  fair  she  is, 
That  surely  at  her  birth  the  council  paused, 
And  then  at  length  cried  out,  This  is  a 

woman ! 

Thumb.     Then    were    the    gods    mistaken — 
she  is  not 

A    woman,    but    a    giantess whom    we, 

23  With  much  ado,  have  made  a  shift  to  hawl 
Within  the  town:  -'  for  she  is  by  a  foot 
Shorter    than    all    her    subject    giants    were. 
Glum.     We    yesterday   were   both   a   queen 

and    wife, 
One    hundred    thousand    giants    owned    our 

sway. 
Twenty  whereof  were  married  to  ourself. 

21  This      simile      occurs      very      frequently 
among    the   dramatic   writers   of   both    kinds. 

22  Mr.    Lee    hath   stolen   this    thought   from 
our    author: 

This    perfect    face,   drawn   by    the    gods 

in  council, 
Which   they   were   long  a    making. 

Luc.    Jun.    Brut. 

At  his  birth  the  heavenly  council  paused, 

And  then  at  last   cried  out,  This   is  a   man! 
Dryden   hath   improved  this   hint   to   the   ut- 
most   perfection: 
So  perfect,    that   the   very   gods   who  formed 

you   wondered 

At    their   own   skill,   and   cried,   A  lucky    hit 
Has    mended    our   design!      Their    envy    hin- 
dered, 

Or  you  had  been  immortal,  and  a  pattern, 
When  .Heaven  would  work  for  ostentation 

sake, 

To    copy    out    again.  All   for   Love. 

Banks    prefers    the    works    of    Michael    An- 
gelo    to    that   of   the   gods: 
A  pattern  for  the   gods  to  make  a  man  by, 
Or    Michael   Angelo   to   form    a    statue. 

23  It    is    impossible,    says    Mr.    W — ,    suffi- 
ciently  to  admire  this   natural   easy  line. 

24  This   tragedy,   which  in   most   points   re- 
sembles   the   ancients,   differs    from    them   in 
this — that    it    assigns     the     same     honor    to 
lowness  of  stature  which  they  did  to  height. 
The    gods    and   heroes    in   Homer    and   Virgil 
are  continually  described  higher  by  the  head 
than   their   followers,   the   contrary   of   which 
is  observed  by  our  author.     In  short,  to  ex- 
ceed   on    either    side    is    equally    admirable; 
and   a  man  of   three   foot   is   as   wonderful   a 
sight  as  a  man  of  nine. 


Queen.     Oh!      happy      state      of      giantism 

where  husbands 
Like  mushrooms  grow,  whilst  hapless  we  are 

forced 
To    be    content,    nay,    happy    thought,    with 

one. 
Glum.     But   then    to   lose    them   all   in   one 

black   day, 
That    the    same    sun    which,    rising,    saw    me 

wife 

To   twenty   giants,   setting   should   behold 
Me    widowed    of    them    all. -3  My    worn-out 

heart, 
That   ship,   leaks   fast,   and   the   great   heavy 

lading, 
My   soul,   will  quickly  sink. 

Queen.  Madam,  believe 

I    view    your   sorrows   with   a    woman's   eye: 
But  learn  to  bear  them  with   what  strength 

you    may, 

To-morrow   we   will   have   our   grenadiers 
Drawn   out   before   you,   and   you    then    shall 

choose 
What    husbands    you    think    fit. 

Glum.  *>  Madam,   I  am 

Your      most     obedient     and      most      humble 

servant. 
King.     Think,   mighty  princess,   think   this 

court  your  own, 
Nor   think   the   landlord   me,    this    house   my 

inn; 
Call    for    whate'er    you    will,    you'll    nothing 

pay. 

27  I  feel  a  sudden  pain  within  my  breast, 
Nor  know  I  whether  it  arise   from  love 
Or    only    the    wind-colic.      Time    must    show. 
Oh   Thumb !   what   do   we    to   thy   valor   owe ! 
Ask    some   reward,    great  as   we   can   bestow. 
Thumb.     -8  I  ask  not  kingdoms,  I  can  con- 
quer those; 

I    ask   not    money,    money    I've    enough; 
For  what  I've  done,  and  what  I  mean  to  do, 
For  giants  slain,  and   giants  yet   unborn, 

Which  I  will  slay if  this  be  called  a  debt, 

Take  my  receipt  in  full:  I  ask  but  this, — 

25  My  blood  leaks  fast,   and  the   great   heavy 

lading 

My    soul    will    quickly    sink.  Mithridates. 

My  soul  is   like  a   ship.  Injured  Love. 

26  This    well-bred    line    seems    to   be    copied 
in    the   Persian   Princess: — 

To     be     your     humblest     and    most     faithful 
slave. 

27  This  doubt  of  the  king  puts  me  in  mind 
of  a  passage  in  the  Captives,  where  the  noise 
of  feet  is  mistaken  for  the  rustling  of  leaves. 

Methinks   I   hear 


The    sound    of    feet: 

No;  'twas  the  wind  that   shook  yon  cypress 

boughs. 

28  Mr.  Dryden  seems  to  have  had  this  pas- 
sage in  his  eye  in  the  first  page  of  Love 
Triumphant. 


300 


TOM  THUMB  THE  GREAT 


ACT  I,  Sc.  III. 


29  To  sun   myself  in  Huncamunca's  eyes. 
King.     Prodigious    bold    request. 

Queen.     30  Be    still,   my    soul.       [Aside. 

Thumb.     31  My    heart    is    at    the    threshold 
of  your  mouth, 

And   waits   its    answer    there. Oh!    do   not 

frown. 

I've  tried  to  reason's   tune  to   tune   my   soul, 
But  love  did  overwind  and  crack  the  string. 
Though     Jove     in     thunder     had     cried     out, 
YOU    SHANT, 

I     should     have     loved     her     still for     oh, 

strange  fate ! 
Then    when    I    loved    her    least    I    loved    her 

most! 
King.     It  is  resolved — the  princess  is  your 

own. 
Thumb.        Oh!      32  happy,      happy,      happy, 

happy  Thumb ! 

Queen.     Consider,    sir;    reward    your    sol- 
dier's  merit, 

But   give    not    Huncamunca   to   Tom   Thumb. 
King.     Tom    Thumb !    Odzooks !    my    wide- 
extended  realm 
Knows    not    a    name    so    glorious    as    Tom 

Thumb. 

Let    Macedonia    Alexander    boast, 
Let  Rome  her  Caesars  and  her  Scipios  show, 
Her    Messieurs    France,    let    Holland    boast 

Mynheers, 

Ireland  her  O's,  her  Macs  let  Scotland  boast, 
Let     England     boast     no     other     than     Tom 

Thumb. 
Queen.     Though    greater    yet    his    boasted 

merit    was, 
He  shall  not  have  my  daughter,  that  is  pos'. 

29  Don  Carlos,  in  the  Revenge,  suns  himself 
in    the    charms   of   his    mistress: 

While    in    the    lustre    of    her    charms    I    lay. 

30  A    tragical    phrase    much    in    use. 

31  This    speech    hath    been    taken    to   pieces 
by     several    tragical    authors,    who    seem    to 
have  rifled  it,  and  shared  its  beauties  among 
them. 

My   soul   waits   at    the  portal   of  thy   breast, 
To  ravish   from   thy   lips   the  welcome   news. 
Anne     Bullen. 
My    soul    stands    listening    at    my    ears. 

Cyrus  the  Great. 
Love    to    his    tune    my    jarring    heart    would 

bring, 
But      reason     overwinds,      and     cracks      the 

string.  Duke   of  Guise. 

1    should    have    loved, 

Though    Jove,     in    muttering    thunder,    had 

forbid    it.  New    Sophonisba. 

And    when    it    (my    heart)    wild    resolves    to 

love  no  more, 
Then   is   the   triumph   of  excessive   love. 

Ibid. 

32  Massinissa  is  one-fourth  less  happy  than 
Tom   Thumb. 

Oh!  happy,  happy,  happy!      New  Sophonisba. 


King.     Ha!    sayest    thou,    Dollallolla? 
Queen.  I    say    he  shan't. 

King.     33  Then  by  our  royal  self  we  swear 

you  lie. 

Queen.  3i  Who,  but  a  dog,  who,  but  a  dog 
Would  use  me  as  thou  dost?  Me,  who 

have   lain 

35  These  twenty  years  so  loving  by  thy  side ! 
But    I    will    be    revenged.      I'll    hang    myself. 
Then    tremble    all    who    did    this    match    per- 
suade, 

For,  riding  on  a  cat,  from  high  I'll  fall, 
And  squirt  down  royal  vengeance  on  you 

all. 
Food.     37  Her    majesty    the    queen    is    in    a 

passion. 
King.     38  ge  sne>  or  oe  sne  not>   j>jj   to  ^e 

girl 
And    pave     thy    way,    oh    Thumb.— Now    by 

ourself, 
We  were   indeed  a  pretty  king  of  clouts 

To  truckle  to  her  will. For  when  by  force 

Or  art   the   wife   her   husband   over-reaches, 
Give  him  the  petticoat,  and  her  the  breeches. 
Thumb.     39  Whisper    ye    winds,    that    Hun- 
camunca's mine! 

Echoes  repeat,  that  Huncamunca's  mine! 
The  dreadful  business  of  the  war  is  o'er, 
And  beauty,  heavenly  beauty!  crowns  my 

toils ! 

I've    thrown    the   bloody    garment    now    aside 
And   hymeneal   sweets   invite    my   bride. 
So    when    some    chimney-sweeper    all    the 

day 
Hath  through  dark  paths  pursued  the  sooty 

way, 
At    night    to    wash    his    hands    and    face    he 

flies, 
And    in    his    t'other    shirt    with    his    Brick- 

dusta    lies. 

33  No,    by    myself.  Anne   Bullen. 

Who    caused 

This    dreadful    revolution    in    my    fate.  , 

Ulamar.     Who,  but  a  dog— who,  but   a  dog? 

Liberty  Ass. 
— A  bride, 

Who   twenty   years  lay   loving  by   your  side. 

Banks. 
38  For,    borne    upon    a    cloud,    from    high    I'll 

fall, 

And   rain  down  royal   vengeance  on   you   all. 

Alb.    Queens. 

37  An  information  very  like  this  we  have 
in  the  Tragedy  of  Lore,  where,  Cyrus  having 
stormed  in  the  most  violent  manner, 
Cyaxares  observes  very  calmly, 

Why,    nephew   Cyrus,   you   are   moved. 
38  'Tis  in   your  choice. 
Love    me,    or   love    me    not. 

Conquest  of  Granada. 

"There  is  not  one  beauty  in  this  charming 
speech  but  hath  been  borrowed  by  almost 
every  tragic  writer. 


301 


ACT  I,  Sc.  V. 


TOM  THUMB  THE  GREAT 


SCENE    IV 

Grizzle  (solus).  «°  Where  art  thou,  Griz- 
zle? where  are  now  thy  glories? 

Where  are  the  drums  that  waken  thee  to 
honor  ? 

Greatness  is  a  laced  coat  from  Monmouth- 
street, 

Which   fortune  lends   us  for  a   day   to  wear, 

To-morrow   puts    it    on    another's   back. 

The   spiteful  sun  but  yesterday  surveyed 

His    rival    high   as   Saint   Paul's   cupola; 

Now  may  he  see  me  as  Fleet-ditch  laid  low. 

SCENE    V 
QUEEN,   GRIZZLE. 

Queen.  41  Teach  me  to  scold,  prodigious- 
minded  Grizzle. 

Mountain  of  treason,   ugly  as  the  devil, 
Teach     this     confounded     hateful     mouth    of 

mine 

To   spout   forth   words   malicious    as   thyself, 
Words   which   might    shame    all   Billingsgate 

to    speak. 
Griz.     Far   be   it    from   my   prid     to   think 

my   tongue 

Your  royal  lips  can  in  that  art  instruct, 
Wherein  you  so  excel.  But  may  I  ask, 
Without  offence,  wherefore  my  queen  would 

scold? 

Queen.  Wherefore?  Oh!  blood  and  thun- 
der! ha'n't  you  heard 

(What   every   corner  of   the   court  resounds) 
That    little    Thumb    will    be    a    great    man 

made? 
Griz.     I     heard     it.      I     confess— for    who, 

alas! 
42  Can  always  stop  his  ears  ?— But  would  my 

teeth, 
By    grinding   knives,    had    first   been    set   on 

edge! 

Queen.     Would    I    had    heard,    at   the    still 
'       noon   of    night, 
The  hallalloo  of  fire  in  every  street! 
Odsbobs!     I  have  a  mind  to  hang  myself, 
To   think    I   should   a   grandmother   be   made 
By  such  a  rascal!— Sure  the  king  forgets 
When  in  a  pudding,  by  his  mother  put, 
The  bastard,   by   a  tinker,   on  a   stile 
Was    dropped. — O,    good   lord   Grizzle!    can    I 
bear 

40  Mr.   Banks   has    (I  wish   I  could  not    say 
too    servilely)    imitated    this    of    Grizzle    in 
his  Earl  of  Essex: 

Where  art  thou,  Essex,  &c. 

41  The  countess  of  Nottingham,  in  the  Earl 
of     Essex,     is     apparently     acquainted     with 
Dollallolla. 

42  Grizzle    was    not    probably    possessed    of 
that  glue  of  which  Mr.   Banks   speaks  in  his 
Cyrus. 

I'll   glue   my   ears   to   every    word. 


To     see     him    from    a    pudding    mount     the 

throne? 

Or   can,   Oh  can,  my   Huncamunca  bear 
To  take  a  pudding's  offspring   to  her  arms? 
Griz.     Oh    horror!    horror!    horror!    cease, 

my  queen. 
43  Thy      voice,      like      twenty      screech-owls, 

wracks  my  brain. 
Queen.     Then    rouse    thy    spirit — we    may 

yet  prevent 
This    hated    match. 

Gris.     We  will ; 44  nor  fate  itself, 

Should     it    conspire     with    Thomas    Thumb, 

should  cause  it. 
I'll    swim    through    seas;    I'll    ride    upon    the 

clouds; 

I'll   dig   the   earth;   I'll   blow  out    every   fire; 
I'll    rave;    I'll    rant;    I'll    rise;    I'll    rush;    I'll 

roar; 
Fierce  as  the  man   whom   •'•'•  smiling  dolphins 

bore 

From  the  prosaic  to  poetic  shore. 
I'll    tear    the    scoundrel    into    twenty    pieces. 
Queen.     Oh,    no!    prevent    the    match,    but 

hurt   him   not; 
For,    though    I    would    not    have    him    have 

my    daughter, 
Yet    can    we    kill    the    man    that    killed    the 

giants  ? 
Gria.     I    tell    you,    madam,    it    was    all    a 

trick; 
He  made  the  giants  first,  and  then  he  killed 

them; 

As  fox-hunters  bring  foxes  to   the  wood, 
And  then  with   hounds   they   drive   them  out 

again. 
Queen.     How!    have    you    seen    no    giants? 

Are    there    not 
Now,    in    the    yard,    ten     thousand    proper 

giants  ? 
Griz.     46  Indeed    I    cannot    positively     tell, 


4*  Screech-owls,  dark  ravens,  and  amphibious 

monsters, 
Are  screaming  in  that  voice. 

Mary  Queen   of  Scots. 

44  The   reader   may    see   all   the   beauties   of 
this   speech  in   a   late  ode,   called    the    Naval 
Lyric. 

45  This   epithet   to   a  dolphin   doth   not   give 
one   so  clear  an   idea  as  were  to  be  wished; 
a    smiling    fish    seeming    a    little    more    diffi- 
cult    to    be    imagined     than    a    flying    fish. 
Mr.  Dryden  is  of  opinion  that  smiling  is  the 
property    of    reason,    and    that    no    irrational 
creature    can    smile: 

Smiles    not    allowed    to    beasts    from    reason 

move.  State    of    Innocence. 

48  These  lines  are  written  in  the  same  key 

with   those   in   the  Earl  of  Essex: 

Why,  sayest  thou  so?  I  love  thee  well, 
indeed 

I  do,  and   thou   shalt   find  by   this   'tis   true. 


302 


TOM  THUMB  THE  GREAT 


ACT  II,  Sc.  II. 


But   firmly   do   believe    there   is   not   one. 
Queen.     Hence!  from  my  sight!  thou  trai- 
tor,   hie    away ; 

By  all  my  stars!   thou  enviest  Tom  Thumb. 

Go,  sirrah!  go,"  hie  away!  hie! — thou  art 

A    setting-dog:    be   gone. 

Griz.  Madam,  I  go. 

Tom    Thumb    shall    feel    the    vengeance    you 
have    raised. 

So,    when    two    dogs    are    fighting    in    the 
streets, 

With  a  third  dog  one  of  the  two  dogs  meets, 

With  angry  teeth  he  bites  him   to  the  bone, 

And  this  dog  smarts  for  what  that  dog  had 
done. 

SCENE    VI 

Queen    (sola).     And   whither   shall   I   go?— 

Alack   a   day! 
I    love   Tom   Thumb— but  must  not   tell  him 

so; 
For    what's    a    woman    when    her    virtue's 

gone? 
A  coat  without  its  lace;  wig  out  of  buckle; 

A    stocking    with    a    hole    in.'t 1    can't   live 

Without  my  virtue,  or  without  Tom  Thumb. 


me    weigh    them    in    two    equal 
put    my     virtue,     that    Tom 


18  Then    let 

scales; 
In    this     scale 

Thumb. 
Alas!      Tom     Thumb     is    heavier    than    my 

virtue. 

But  hold  {—perhaps  I  may  be  left  a  widow: 
This  match  prevented,  then  Tom  Thumb  is 

mine: 
In  that  dear  hope  I  will  forget  my  pain. 

Or   with  this   in   Cyrus: 

The  most  heroic  mind  that  ever  was. 
And  with  above  half  of  the  modern  tragedies. 

4T  Aristotle,  in  that  excellent  work  of  his 
which  is  very  justly  styled  his  master- 
piece, earnestly  recommends  using  the 
terms  of  art,  however  coarse  or  even  in- 
decent they  may  be.  Mr.  Tate  is  of  the 
same  opinion. 
Bru.  Do  not,  like  young  hawks,  fetch  a 

course  about: 
Your   game    flies    fair. 
Fra.     Do   not   fear   it. 

He    answers    you    in    your    hawking 
phrase.  Injured    Love. 

I  think  these  two  great  authorities  are 
sufficient  to  justify  Dollallolla  in  the  use 
of  the  phrase,  "Hie  away,  hie!"  when  in 
the  same  line  she  says  she  is  speaking  to  a 
setting-dog. 

48  We     meet     with     such    another     pair    of 
scales  in  Dry  den's  King  Arthur: 
Arthur  and  Oswald,  and  their  different  fates, 
Are  weighing  now  within  the  scales  of  heaven. 
Also -in  Sebastian: 
This  hour  ray  lot  is  weighing  in  the  scales. 


So,  when  some  wench  to  Tothill  Bridewell's 

sent, 

With   beating  hemp  and  flogging   she's   con- 
tent; 

She  hopes  in  time  to  ease  her  present  pain. 
At    length    is    free,    and    walks    the    streets 
again. 

ACT  II, 

SCENE    I 
The    Street. — BAILIFF,    FOLLOWER. 

Bail.     Come  on,  my   trusty  follower,   come 

on; 

This   day   discharge    thy   duty,  and   at   night 
A   double  mug  of  beer,  and   beer   shall   glad 

thee. 
Stand    here    by    me,    this    way    must    Noodle 

pass. 
Fol.     No  more,  no  more,  oh  Bailiff!  every 

word 

Inspires    my    soul   with    virtue.     Oh!   I    long 
To    meet   the    enemy   in   the   street — and    nab 

him: 

To   lay   arresting   hands   upon   his   back, 
And    drag    him    trembling    to    the    sponging- 

house. 
Bail.     There  when  I  have  him,  I  will  sponge 

upon    him. 
4S  Oh !   glorious    thought !   by    the   sun,   moon, 

and  stars, 

I   will  enjoy  it,   though  it  be  in  thought! 
Yes,   yes,    my   follower,    I   will   enjoy   it. 
Fol.     Enjoy   it   then   some   other   time,   for 

now 

Our   prey   approaches. 
Bail.     Let  us   retire. 


SCENE    II 
TOM    THUMB,    NOODLE,    BAILIFF,    FOLLOWER. 

Thumb.     Trust  me,  my  Noodle,  I  am  won- 
drous sick; 

For,  though  I  love  the  gentle  Huncamunca, 
Yet  at  the  thought  of  marriage  I  grow  pale: 
For,  oh !  M  but  swear  thou'l  t  keep  it  ever 

secret, 
I  will  unfold  a  tale  will  make  thee  stare. 

49  Mr.  Rowe  is  generally   imagined  to  have 
taken    some    hints    from    this    scene    in    his 
character   of  Bajazet;   but  as   he,   of   all    the 
tragic   writers,   bears    the   least    resemblance 
to  our  author  in  his  diction,  I  am  unwilling 
to    imagine    he    would    condescend    to    copy 
him    in    this   particular. 

50  This    method   of    surprising   an    audience, 
by    raising   their   expectation   to   the    highest 
pitch,  and  then  baulking  it,  hath  been  prac- 
tised   with    great    success    by    most    of    our 
tragical   authors. 


303 


ACT  II,  Sc.  III. 


TOM  THUMB  THE  GREAT 


Nood.     I    swear    by    lovely    Huncamunca's 

charms. 
Thumb.     Then     know    51  my     grandmamma 

hath    often    said, 
Tom  Thumb,  beware  of  marriage. 

Nood.  Sir,   I   blush 

To  think  a  warrior,  great  in  arms  as  you, 
Should  be  affrighted  by  his  grandmamma. 
Can  an  old  woman's  empty  dreams  deter 
The  blooming  hero  from  the  virgin's  arms? 
Think  of  the  joy  that  will  your  soul  alarm, 
When  in  her  fond  embraces  clasped  you 

lie, 
While    on    her    panting    breast,    dissolved    in 

bliss, 

You  pour  out  all  Tom  Thumb  in  every  kiss. 
Thumb.     Oh!   Noodle,   thou    hast    fired    my 

eager  soul 

Spite  of  my  grandmother  she  shall  be  mine; 
I'll  hug,  caress,  I'll  eat  her  up  with  love: 
Whole  days,  and  nights,  and  years  shall  be 

too    short 

For    our    enjoyment;    every    sun    shall    rise 

"-'  Blushing    to    see    us    in    our    bed    together. 

Nood.     Oh,   sir!  this  purpose  of  your  soul 

pursue. 
Bail.     Oh!   sir!    I    have    an    action    against 

you. 

Nood.     At    whose    suit   is   it? 
Bail.     At    your    tailor's,    sir. 
Your  tailor   put   this   warrant   in   my   hands, 
And  I  arrest  you,  sir,  at  his  commands. 
Thumb.     Ha!  dogs!     Arrest  my  friend  be- 
fore   my    face ! 

Think  you  Tom  Thumb  will  suffer  this  dis- 
grace ? 
But  let  vain  cowards  threaten  by  their  word, 

51  Almeyda,    in    Sebastian,    is    in    the    same 
distress: 
Sometimes    methinks    I    hear    the    groan    of 

ghosts, 

Thin  hollow  sounds  and  lamentable  screams; 
Then,   like   a.   dying   echo   from   afar, 
My    mother's    voice    that    cries,    Wed    not, 

Almeyda; 

Forewarned,  Almeyda,  marriage  is  thy  crime. 
52 "  As  very  well  he  may,  if  he  hath  any 
modesty  in  him,"  says  Mr.  D — s.  The 
author  of  Busiris  is  extremely  zealous  to 
prevent  the  sun's  blushing  at  any  indecent 
object;  and  therefore  on  all  such  occasions 
he  addresses  himself  to  the  sun,  and  desires 
him  to  keep  out  of  the  way. 
Rise  never  more,  O  sun!  let  night  prevail, 
Eternal  darkness  close  the  world's  wide 

scene.  Busiris. 

Sun,    hide    thy    face,    and    put    the    world    in 

mourning.  Ibid. 

Mr.    Banks    makes    the    sun    perform    the 

office  of  Hymen,   and  therefore  not  likely  to 

be    disgusted   at    such    a    sight: 

The  sun  sets  forth  like  a  gay  brideman  with 

you.  Mary  Queen  of  Scots. 


Tom    Thumb    shall    show    his    anger    by    his 
sword. 

[Kills    the    Bailiff    and    his   Follower. 
Bail.     Oh,   I  am  slain! 

Fol.  I   am  murdered  also 

And  to  the  shades,  the  dismal  shades  below, 
My   bailiff's    faithful   follower  I   go. 

Nood.     "Go    then    to    hell,   like    rascals   as 

you  are, 

And   give   our    service   to   the   bailiffs   there. 
Thumb.     Thus  perish  all  the  bailiffs  in  the 

land, 
Till    debtors    at    noon-day    shall    walk     the 

streets, 
And  no  one  fear  a  bailiff  or  his  writ. 

SCENE    III 

The      Princess      Huncamunca's      Apartment. — 
HUNCAMUNCA,    CLEORA,    MUSTACHA. 

Hunc.     54  Give  me  some  music — see  that  it 
be   sad. 

CLEORA  sings. 


Cupid,  ease  a  love-sick  maid, 
Bring  thy  quiver  to  her  aid; 
With  equal  ardor  wound  the  swain, 
Beauty   should  never   sigh   in   vain. 

II 

Let  him  feel  the  pleasing  smart, 
Drive  thy  arrow   through   his   heart: 
When  one  you  wound,  you  then  destroy; 
When  both  you  kill,  you  kill  with  joy. 

Hunc.     55  O    Tom    Thumb !     Tom     Thumb ! 

wherefore  art  thou  Tom  Thumb? 
Why  hadst  thou  not  been  born  of  royal  race? 
Why     had     not     mighty     Bantam     been     thy 

father? 

Or  else  the  king  of  Brentford,  Old  or  New? 

Must.     I  am  surprised  that   your  highness 

can    give    yourself    a    moment's    uneasiness 

about    that    little    insignificant    fellow,53    Tom 

53  Nourmahal    sends    the    same    message    to 
heaven: 

For    I    would    have    you   when    you    upwards 

move, 
Speak   kindly  of  us  to  our   friends   above. 

Aurengsebe. 

We    find    another   "  to    hell,"   in    the    Persian 
Princess : 

Villain,  get  thee  down 
To  hell,  and  tell  them  that  the  fray's  begun. 

54  Anthony  gives  the  same  command  in  the 
same    words. 

55  Oh!    Marius,   Marius,  wherefore   art   thou 
Marius?  Otway's    Marius. 

06  Nothing    is    more    common     than     these 
seeming    contradictions;    such   as, 
Haughty    weakness.  Victim. 

Great   small   world.  Noah's  Flood. 


304 


TOM  THUMB  THE  GREAT 


ACT  II,  Sc.  IV. 


Thumb  the  Great — one  properer  for  a  play- 
thing than  a  husband.  Were  he  my  husband 
his  horns  should  be  as  long  as  his  body. 
If  you  had  fallen  in  love  with  a  grenadier, 
I  should  not  have  wondered  at  it.  If  you  had 
fallen  in  love  with  something;  but  to  fall  in 
love  with  nothing! 

Hit  lie.     Cease,   my   Mustacha,   on   thy   duty 

cease. 
The   zephyr,   when  in   flowery   vales  it  plays, 


Is 


soft, 


sweet     as     Thummy's 


not     si 
breath. 
The   dove  is   not   so   gentle   to  its  mate. 

Must.  The  dove  is  every  bit  as  proper 
for  a  husband.— Alas !  Madam,  there's  not 
a  beau  about  the  court  looks  so  little  like  a 
man.  He  is  a  perfect  butterfly,  a  thing  with- 
out substance,  and  almost  without  shadow 
too. 

Hit  nc.     This      rudeness     is     unseasonable: 

desist; 

Or  I  shall  think  this  railing  comes  from  love. 
Tom    Thumb's    a   creature   of    that   charming 

form, 

That  no  one  can  abuse,  unless  they  love  him. 
Must.     Madam,   the  king. 


SCENE    IV 
KING,    HUNCAMUNCA. 

King.     Let  all  but   Huncamunca  leave  the 
room.  [Exeunt  CLEORA  and  MUSTACHA. 

Daughter,  I  havt   observed  of  late  some  grief 
Unusual   in  your  countenance:   your  eyes 

57  That,  like  two  open  windows,  used  to  show 
The  lovely   beauty  of  the   rooms   within, 
Have    now    two    blinds    before    them.      What 

is  the  cause  ? 

Say,  have  you  not  enough  of  meat  and  drink? 
We've   given    strict   orders    not   to   have   you 

stinted. 

Hunc.     Alas!  my   lord,   I   value   not   myself 
That   once   I   eat   two   fowls    and    half   a   pig; 

58  Small   is   that   praise !  but  oh !  a  maid  may 

want 
What   she  can   neither  eat  nor  drink. 


King. 


What's   that? 


57  Lee    hath    improved    this    metaphor: 
Dost    thou    not    view    joy    peeping    from    my 

eyes, 
The    casements    opened    wide    to    gaze    on 

thee, 

So    Rome's    glad   citizens   to   windows    rise, 
When     they     some     young     triumpher     fain 
would    see.  Gloria/no. 

58Almahide    hath    the    same    contempt    for 
these    appetites: 
To   eat   and   drink   can   no   perfection   he. 

Conquest   of   Granada. 
The  Earl  of  Essex  is  of  a  different  opinion, 


Hunc.     O  59  spare  my  blushes;  but  I  mean 

a  husband. 

King.     If  that  be  all,   I  have  provided  one, 
A    husband    great    in    arms,    whose    warlike 

sword 
Streams  with  the  yellow  blood  of  slaughter'd 

giants, 

Whose    name    in   Terra    Incognita   is    known, 

Whose    valor,    wisdom,    virtue   make   a   noise 

Great  as  the  kettle-drums  of  twenty  armies. 

Hunc.     Whom  does  my  royal  father  mean? 

King.  Tom  Thumb. 

Hunc.     Is  it  possible? 

King.          Ha!  the  window-blinds  are  gone; 
60  A  country-dance  of  joy  is  in  your  face. 
Your   eyes    spit   fire,    your   cheeks    grow   red 

as  beef. 
Hunc.     O,    there's    a    magic-music    in    that 

sound, 

Enough   to   turn   me  into   beef   indeed! 
Yes,  I  will  own,  since  licensed  by  your  word, 
I'll    own    Tom    Thumb    the    cause    of    all    my 

grief. 
For  him  I've  sighed,  I've  wept,  I've  gnawed 

my   sheets. 
King.     Oh !    thou    shalt    gnaw    thy    tender 

sheets  no  more. 

A  husband  thou  shalt  have  to  mumble  now. 
Hunc.     Oh!    happy    sound!    henceforth    let 

no  one  tell 

That  Huncamunca  shall  lead  apes  in  hell. 
Oh!  I  am  overjoyed! 


and  seems  to  place  the  chief  happiness  of  a 
general    therein: 

Were  but  commanders  half  so  well  rewarded, 
Then   they   might   eat. 

BANKS'S  Earl  of  Essex. 

But,  if  we  may  believe  one  who  knows 
more  than  either,  the  devil  himself,  we  shall 
find  eating  to  be  an  affair  of  more  mo- 
ment than  is  generally  imagined: 

Gods  are  immortal  only  by  their  food. 

Lucifer,  in  the  State  of  Innocence. 

50 « This  expression  is  enough  of  itself," 
says  Mr.  D— s,  "  utterly  to  destroy  the 
character  of  Huncamunca!  "  Yet  we  find  a 
woman  of  no  abandoned  character  in  Dry- 
den  adventuring  farther,  and  thus  excusing 
herself: 

To  speak  our  wishes   first,   forbid  it  pride, 
Forbid   it   modesty;    true,    they    forbid    it, 
But  Nature  does  not.     When  we  are  athirst, 
Or    hungry,    will    imperious    Nature    stay, 
Nor  eat,   nor  drink,  before   'tis   bid   fall   on? 

Clcomenes. 

Cassandra  speaks  before  she  is  asked: 
Huncamunca  afterwards.  Cassandra  speaks 
her  wishes  to  her  lover:  Huncamunca  only 
to  her  father. 

90  Her    eyes    resistless    magic    bear; 
Angels,    I    see,    and    gods    are   dancing    there. 
LEE'S    Sophonisba. 


305 


ACT  II,  Sc.  V. 


TOM  THUMB  THE  GREAT 


Kin,;.  1    see   thou   art. 

61  Joy    lightens    in    thy    eyes,    and    thunders 

from    thy   brows; 
Transports,    like    lightning,    dart    along    thy 

soul, 
As   small-shot  through  a  hedge. 

II it >ii.  Oh!  say  not  small. 

King.     This     happy     news     shall     on     our 

tongue   ride   post, 

Ourself   we  bear  the   happy  news  to  Thumb. 
Yet  think  not,  daughter,  that  your  powerful 

charms 

Must    still    detain    the   hero    from    his   arms; 
Various    his    duty,    various    his    delight; 
Now   is    his   turn   to   kiss,   and   now   to   fight, 
And  now   to  kiss  again.     So,  mighty  i;-   Jove, 
When      with      excessive      thundering      tired 

above, 
Comes  down   to  earth,  and  takes  a  bit— and 

then 
Flies  to  his  trade  of  thundering  back  again. 


SCENE   V 
GRIZZLE,  HUNCAMUNCA. 

83  Gris.     Oh !     Huncamunca,     Huncamun ca, 

oh! 
Thy    pouting    breasts,    like   kettle-drums    of 

brass, 

Beat  everlasting  loud  alarms  of  joy; 
As  bright  as  brass  they  are,  and  oh,  as  hard. 
Oh!   Huncamunca,   Huncamunca,    oh! 

Hit nc.     Ha!   dost   thou   know   me,  princess 
as   I   am, 


61  Mr.    Dennis,    in    that    excellent    tragedy 
called  Liberty  Asserted,   which   is  thought   to 
have    given    so    great    a    stroke    to    the    late 
French    king,     hath    frequent    imitations    of 
this  beautiful  speech  of  king  Arthur: 
Conquest   lightening   in  his   eyes,   and   thun- 
dering  in    his    arm. 
Joy   lightened   in   her   eyes. 
Joys  like  lightning  dart  along  my   soul. 
82  Jove,      with     excessive     thundering     tired 

above, 
Comes   down  for  ease,  enjoys   a  nymph,  and 

then 

Mounts    dreadful,    and    to    thundering    goes 

again.  Gloriana. 

83  This    beautiful    line,    which    ought,    says 

Mr.   W — ,  to  be  written  in  gold,   is  imitated 

in    the    New    Sophonisba: 

Oh!    Sophonisba;    Sophonisba,    oh! 
Oh!    Narva;    Narva,   oh! 

The    author    of    a    song    called    Duke    upon 
Duke    hath    improved    it: 

Alas!    O    Nick!    O    Nick,    alas! 
Where,  by  the  help  of  a  little  false  spelling, 
you    have    two    meanings    in    the    repeated 
words. 


"'  That  thus   of   me   you    dare    to   make   your 

game? 
Gris.     Oh!  Huncamunca,  well  I  know  that 

you 

A  princess  are,  and  a  king's  daughter,  too; 
But   love   no   meanness   scorns,    no   grandeur 

fears; 

Love   often   lords   into   the   cellar  bears, 
And   bids  the  sturdy  porter  come  up   stairs. 
For  what's  too   high  for  love,  or  what's  too 

low? 
Oh !  Huncamunca,   Huncamunca,   oh ! 

llinic.     But,   granting   all  you  say   of   love 

were    true, 

My  love,  alas!  is  to  another  due. 
In  vain  to  me  a  suitoring  you  come, 
For   I'm  already  promised  to  Tom  Thumb. 
Griz.     And  can  my  princess  such  a  durgen 

wed? 

One  fitter  for  your  pocket  than  your  bed! 
Advised  by  me,  the  worthless  baby  shun, 
Or  you  will  ne'er  be  brought  to  bed  of  one. 
Oh  take  me  to  thy  arms,  and  never  flinch, 
Who  am  a  man,  by  Jupiter!  every  inch. 
85  Then,  while  in  joys  together  lost  we  lie, 
I'll  press  thy  soul  while  gods  stand  wishing 

by. 
Hutic.     If,    sir,    what    you    insinuate    you 

prove, 

All  obstacles  of  promise  you  remove; 
For  all  engagements  to  a  man  must  fall, 
Whene'er  that  man  is  proved  no  man  at  all. 
Gris.     Oh!  let  him  seek  some  dwarf,  some 

fairy  miss, 
Where    no   joint-stool   must   lift   him    to    the 

kiss! 

But,  by  the  stars  and  glory!  you  appear 
Much    fitter   for   a    Prussian    grenadier; 
One    globe   alone    on    Atlas'    shoulders    rests, 
Two     globes    are    less     than    Huncamunca's 

breasts; 

The   milky   way   is  not  so  white,   that's  flat, 
And    sure    thy    breasts   are   full   as    large   as 

that. 
Hnnc.     Oh,   sir,   so   strong   your  eloquence 

I   find, 
It  is  impossible  to  be  unkind. 

Griz.     Ah!   speak   that   o'er  again;   and  let 

the    •  sound 

84  Edith,   in   the   Bloody   Brother,   speaks    to 
her   lover   in    the    same   familiar   language: 

Your  grace  is  full  of  game. 
65  Traverse    the    glittering    chambers    of    the 

sky, 

Borne  on  a  cloud  in  view  of  fate  I'll  lie, 
And  press   her   soul   while   gods   stand  wish- 
ing  by.  Hannibal. 
68  Let    the    four    winds    from    distant    corners 

meet, 

And  on  their  wings  first  bear  it  into  France; 
Then  back  again   to   Edina's  proud  walls, 
Till    victim    to    the    sound    th'    aspiring    city 
falls.  Albion  Queens. 


306 


TOM  THUMB  THE  GREAT 


ACT  II,  Sc.  VII. 


From  one  pole  to  another  pole  rebound; 
The  earth   and  sky   each  be   a  battledore, 
And    keep    the    sound,    that    shuttlecock,    up 

an  hour: 

To    Doctors-Commons   for   a  licence    I 
Swift  as  an  arrow  from  a  bow  will  fly. 
Hunc.     Oh,     no!    lest     some     disaster     we 

should  meet, 

'Twere  better  to  be  married  at  the  Fleet. 
<,>•:•:.     Forbid  it,  all  ye  powers,  a  princess 

should 

By  that  vile  place  contaminate  her  blood; 
My     quick     return     shall     to     my     charmer 

prove 
I  travel  on  the   ;T  post-horses  of  love. 

Hunc.     Those  post-horses  to  me  will  seem 

too  slow 
Though    they    should    fly    swift   as    the   gods, 

when   they 
Ride   on   behind   that   post-boy,   Opportunity. 


SCENE    VI 
TOM    THUMB,    HUNCAMUNCA. 

Thumb.     Where    is    my    princess?    where's 

my   Huncamunca? 
Where  are  those  eyes,  those  cardmatches  of 

love, 
That    M  light    up    all    with    love    my    waxen 

soul? 

Where  is  that  face  which  artful  nature  made 
6!l  In  the  same  moulds  where  Venus'  self  was 

cast? 

8T I  do  not  remember  any  metaphors  so 
frequent  in  the  tragic  poets  as  those  bor- 
rowed from  riding  post: 

The    gods    and   opportunity   ride   post. 

Hannibal. 

Let's    rush    together, 

For   death   rides   post: 

Duke   of   Guise. 
Destruction  gallops  to  thy  murder  post. 

Gloriana. 
68  This   image,    too,    very    often    occurs: 

Bright   as    when    thy   eye 

First  lighted  up  our  loves.        Attrengsebe. 
'Tis  not  a  crown  alone  lights  up  my  name. 

Busiris. 

89  There  is  great  dissension  among  the 
poets  concerning  the  method  of  making 
man.  One  tells  his  mistress  that  the  mould 
she  was  made  in  being  lost,  Heaven  cannot 
form  such  another.  Lucifer,  in  Dryden, 
gives  a  merry  description  of  his  own  forma- 
tion: 
Whom  heaven,  neglecting,  made  and  scarce 

designed, 
But  threw  me  in  for  number  to  the  rest. 

State    of    Innocence. 

In    one    place    the    same   poet    supposes    man 
to  be  made  of  metal: 


Hunc. 
that' 


70  Oh!    what    is    music 
deaf, 


to    the    ear 


Or  a  goose-pie  to  him  that  has  no  taste? 
What   are   these  praises   now   to   me,  since   I 
Am   promised   to   another? 

Thumb.  Ha!  promised? 

Hunc.     Too  sure;  'tis  written  in  the  book 
of  fate. 

Thumb.     71  Then  I  will   tear  away   the  leaf 
Wherein  it's  writ;  or,  if  fate  won't  allow 
So  large  a  gap  within  its  journal-book, 
I'll  blot  it  out  at  least. 


SCENE    VII 
GLUMDALCA,  TOM  THUMB,  HUNCAMUNCA. 

Glum.     ~- 1   need   not  ask   if  you  are   Hun- 
camunca, 
Your   brandy-nose  proclaims 

I  was   formed 
Of   that   coarse  metal   which,   when   she   was 

made, 
The  gods  threw  by   for  rubbish. 


In    another   of   dough: 


All  for   Love. 


When  the  gods  moulded  up  the  paste  of  man, 
Some  of  their  clay  was  left  upon  their  hands, 
And  so  they  made  Egyptians.  Cleomenes. 

In    another    of    clay: 
Rubbish    of    remaining    clay.       Sebastian. 

One  makes  the  soul  of  wax: 
Her  waxen  soul  begins  to  melt  apace. 

A      .,  ,    ,,.    .  Anne  Bullen. 

Another  of   flint: 

Sure    our    two    souls    have    somewhere    been 

acquainted 

In  former  beings,  or,  struck  out   together, 
One  spark  to  Afric  flew,  and  one  to  Portugal. 

Sebastian. 

To     omit     the     great     quantities     of     iron, 
brazen,  and  leaden  souls  which  are  so  plenty 
in  modern  authors — I  cannot  omit   the  dress 
of  a   soul   as   we    find   it   in   Dryden: 
Souls   shirted  but  with  air.  King  Arthur. 

Nor  can  I  pass  by  a  particular  sort  of  soul 
in    a    particular    sort    of    description    in    the 
New  Sophonisba. 
Ye    mysterious    powers, 

— Whether   through   your   gloomy  depths   I 

wander, 

Or  on  the  mountains  walk,  give  me  the  calm, 
The  steady  smiling  soul,  where  wisdom  sheds 
Eternal  sunshine,  and  eternal  joy. 

70  This  line  Mr.  Banks  has  plundered  entire 
in    his   Anne   Bullen. 
71  Good  Heaven!   the  book  of  fate  before   me 

lay, 

But    to   tear   out    the   journal   of   that   day. 
Or,   if   the  order  of   the  world  below 
Will  not  the  gap  of  one  whole  day  allow, 
Give    me    that    minute    when    she    made    her 
vow.  Conquest  of  Granada. 

72 1   know    some    of   the    commentators    have 


imagined  that  Mr.  Dryden,  in  the  altercative 
307 


ACT  II,  Sc.  VIII. 


TOM  THUMB  THE  GREAT 


finnc.  I   am   a   princess; 

Nor   need   I    ask    who   you   are. 

Glum.  A    giantess; 

The   queen   of   those   who   made   and   unmade 

queens. 
Hiinc.     The   man   whose   chief   ambition    is 

to  be 
My  sweetheart  hath  destroyed  these  mighty 

giants. 
Glum.     Your  sweetheart?    Dost  thou  think 

the   man    who    once 
Hath    worn    my    easy    chains    will    e'er   wear 

thine  ? 
Hunc.     Well    may    your    chains    be    easy, 

since,   if   fame 

Says    true,    they   have   been  tried  on   twenty 
husbands. 

73  The  glove  or  boot,  so  many  times  pulled  on, 
May  well  sit  easy  on  the  hand  or  foot. 

Glum.     I  glory  in  the  number,  and  when  I 
Sit    poorly    down,    like     thee,     content    with 

one, 
Heaven   change   this  face  for  one  as   bad  as 

thine. 
Hunc.     Let     me     see     nearer     what     this 

beauty   is 

That  captivates  the  heart  of  men  by  scores. 

[Holds  a  candle  to  her  face. 

Oh!  Heaven,   thou  art  as  ugly   as  the  devil. 

Glum.     You'd     give      the     best     of     shoes 

within   your   shop 
To   be    but    half   so    handsome. 

Hunc.  Since   you  come 

74  To   that,    I'll   put   my   beauty    to   the   test: 
Tom  Thumb,  I'm  yours,  if  you  with  me  will 

go. 

scene  between  Cleopatra  and  Octavia,  a 
scene  which  Mr.  Addison  inveighs  against 
with  great  bitterness,  is  much  beholden  to 
our  author.  How  just  this  their  observa- 
tion is  I  will  not  presume  to  determine. 

73  "  A   cobbling  poet   indeed,"  says  Mr.   D. ; 
and  yet  I  believe  we  may  find  as  monstrous 
images  in  the   tragic  authors:  I'll  put  down 
one: 

Untie    your    folded    thoughts,    and    let    them 
dangle    loose    as    a    bride's    hair. 

Injured  Love. 

Which  line  seems  to  have  as  much  title  to 
a  milliner's  shop  as  our  author's  to  a  shoe- 
maker's. 

74  Mr.    L —  takes   occasion   in   this   place   to 
commend    the    great    care    of    our    author    to 
preserve  the  metre  of  blank  verse,  in  which 
Shakespeare,    Jonson,    and   Fletcher   were    so 
notoriously    negligent;    and    the   moderns,   in 
imitation    of    our    author,    so    laudably    ob- 
servant: 

Then  does 

Your  majesty  believe  that   he   can  be 
A   traitor?  Earl   of  Essex. 

Every  page  of  Sophonisba  gives  us  instances 

of  this  excellence. 


Glum.     Oh!    stay,    Tom    Thumb,    and    you 

alone   shall   fill 

That   bed   where   twenty   giants   used    to   lie. 
Thumb.     In  the  balcony  that  o'erhangs  the 

stage, 

I've  seen  a  whore  two  'prentices  engage; 
One    half-a-crown    does   in    his    fingers    hold, 
The   other   shows   a   little    piece   of    gold; 
She   the   half-guinea   wisely    does   purloin, 
And    leaves    the    larger   and    the    baser    coin. 
Glum.     Left,  scorned,  and  loathed  for  such 

a  chit  as  this; 

75  I  feel  the  storm  that's  rising  in  my  mind, 
Tempests  and  whirlwinds  rise,  and  roll,  and 

roar. 

I'm  all  within  a  hurricane,  as  if 
70  The   world's   four   winds    were  pent   within 

my  carcase. 

77  Confusion,      horror,      murder,      guts,     and 

death! 

SCENE  VIII 
KING,    GLUMDALCA. 

King.     7S  Sure    never    was    so    sad    a    king 
as   I! 

79  My  life  is  worn  as  ragged  as  a  coat 

A  beggar  wears;  a  prince  should  put  it  off. 

80  To  love  a  captive   and  a  giantess! 

Oh  love!  oh  love!  how  great  a  king  art  thou! 
My  tongue's  thy  trumpet,  and  thou  trum- 

petest, 
Unknown    to    me,    within   me.     SI  Oh,    Glum- 

dalca! 

Heaven    thee    designed   a    giantess    to    make, 
But  an  angelic  soul  was  shuffled  in. 
8- 1   am   a    multitude   of    walking    griefs, 

75  Love    mounts    and   rolls    about   my    stormy 

mind.  Aurengzebe. 

Tempests  and  whirlwinds  through  my  bosom 

move.  Cleomenes. 

78  With  such  a  furious  tempest  on  his  brow, 
As    if    the    world's    four    winds    were    pent 

within 
His   blustering   carcase.  Anne   Bullen. 

77  Verba   Tragtca. 

78  This  speech  has  been  terribly  mauled  by 
the  poet. 

79 My  life  is  worn  to  rags, 

Not   worth   a   prince's    wearing. 

Love    Triumphant. 

80  Must  I  beg  the  pity  of  my   slave? 

Must  a  king  beg?  But  love's  a  greater  king, 
A  tyrant,  nay,  a  devil,  that  possesses  me. 
He  tunes  the  organ  of  my  voice  and  speaks, 
Unknown  to  me,  within  me.  Sebastian. 

81  When  thou  wert  formed  heaven  did  a  man 

begin; 

But  a  brute  soul  by  chance  was  shuffled  in. 

Aurengzebe. 
82 1  am  a  multitude 
Of    walking    griefs. 

New  Sophonisba. 


308 


TOM  THUMB  THE  GREAT 


ACT  II,  Sc.  IX. 


And  only  on  her  lips  the  balm  is  found 

"    To  spread  a  plaster   that  might   cure  them 

all. 
Glum.     What   do   I   hear? 

What  do  I  see? 
Oh! 


King. 
Glum. 
King. 

84  Glum. 
King. 

85  Glum. 
King. 


Ah! 
Ah !  wretched  queen ! 

Oh!  wretched  king! 
Ah! 
Oh! 


SCENE    IX 
TOM    THUMB,    HUNCAMUNCA,    PARSON. 

Par.     Happy's   the   wooing   that's   not   long 

a  doing; 

For,  if  I  guess  right,  Tom  Thumb  this  night 
Shall  give  a  being  to  a  new  Tom  Thumb. 
Thumb.     It  shall  be  my  endeavor  so  to  do. 
Hit nc.     Oh !   fie    upon    you,    sir,    you    make 

me  blush. 
Thumb.     It  is  the  virgin's  sign,  and  suits 

you    well : 

88  I  know  not  where,  nor  how,  nor  what  I  am; 
87  I'm  so  transported,  I  have  lost  myself. 

83 1   will   take   thy    scorpion   blood, 

And   lay   it    to    my    grief   till   I   have    ease. 

Anne  Bullen. 

84  Our  author,  who  everywhere  shows  his 
great  penetration  into  human  nature,  here 
outdoes  himself:  where  a  less  judicious  poet 
would  have  raised  a  long  scene  of  whining 
love,  he,  who  understood  the  passions  bet- 
ter, and  that  so  violent  an  affection  as  this 
must  be  too  big  for  utterance,  chooses 
rather  to  send  his  characters  off  in  this 
sullen  and  doleful  manner,  in  which  admi- 
rable conduct  he  is  imitated  by  the  author 
of  the  justly  celebrated  Eurydice.  Dr.  Young 
seems  to  point  at  this  violence  of  passion: 

— Passion  chokes 
Their    words,     and    they're     the    statues    of 

despair. 

And  Seneca  tells  us,  "  Curse  leves  loquuntur, 
ingentes  stupent."  The  story  of  the  Egyp- 
tian king  in  Herodotus  is  too  well  known 
to  need  to  be  inserted;  I  refer  the  more 
curious  reader  to  the  excellent  Montaigne, 
who  hath  written  an  essay  on  this  subject. 
83  To  part  is  death. 

'Tis  death  to  part. 

Ah! 

Oh! 

Don   Carlos. 
86  Nor  know  I  whether 
What  am  I,  who,  or  where. 

Buriris. 
I  was  I  know  not  what,  and  am  I  know  not 


ho\ 


Gloriana. 


87  To  understand   sufficiently   the  beauty  of 
this   passage,    it    will   be    necessary    that    we 


Hunc.     Forbid   it,   all    ye   stars,   for   you're 

so   small, 
That   were   you  lost,   you'd   find   yourself  no 

more. 
So     the     unhappy     sempstress     once,     they 

say, 

Her  needle  in  a  pottle,  lost,  of  hay; 
In    vain   she   looked,   and   looked,    and   made 

her   moan, 
For  ah,  the  needle  was  for  ever  gone. 

Par.     Long   may    they   live,   and   love,   and 

propagate, 
Till    the    whole    land    be    peopled    with    Tom 

Thumbs ! 
88  So,    when    the    Cheshire    cheese    a    maggot 

breeds, 
Another  and  another  still  succeeds: 


comprehend  every  man  to  contain  two  selfs. 
I    shall    not    attempt    to    prove    this     from 
philosophy,  which  the  poets  make  so  plainly 
evident. 
One  runs   away   from   the  other: 

— Let   me   demand  your  majesty, 
Why    fly    you   from    yourself? 

Duke  of  Guise. 

In  a  second,  one  self  is  a  guardian  to  the 
other: 

Leave   me   the   care   of  me. 

Conquest  of  Granada. 
Again: 

Myself  am  to  myself  less  near. 

Ibid. 

In  the  same,  the  first  self  is  proud  of  the 
second: 

I    myself   am   proud    of  me. 

State    of    Innocence. 
In   a   third,   distrustful    of    him: 
Fain  I  would  tell,  but  whisper  it  in  my  ear, 
That    none    besides    might    hear,     nay,    not 
myself.  Earl  of  Essex. 

In    a    fourth,    honors    him: 
I    honor    Rome, 
And    honor   too    myself. 

Sophonisba. 

In  a  fifth,   at  variance  with  him: 
Leave  me  not  thus  at  variance  with  myself. 

Busirts. 
Again,   in   a   sixth: 

I  find  myself  divided  from  myself. 

Medea. 
She  seemed  the  sad  effigies  of  herself. 

Banks. 

Assist   me,    Zulema,   if  thou   wouldst  be 
The    friend   thou   seemest,   assist   me  against 
me.  Albion    Queens. 

From  all  which  it  appears  that  there  are 
two  selfs;  and  therefore  Tom  Thumb's  los- 
ing himself  is  no  such  solecism  as  it  hath 
been  represented  by  men  rather  ambitious 
of  criticising  than  qualified  to  criticise. 

88  Mr.  F—  imagines  this  parson  to  have 
been  a  Welsh  one,  from  his  simile. 


309 


ACT  II,  Sc.  X. 


TOM  THUMB  THE  GREAT 


By  thousands  and  ten  thousands  they  in- 
crease, 

Till  one  continued  maggot  fills  the  rotten 
cheese. 

SCENE    X 
NOODLE,  and  then  GRIZZLE. 

Nood.     89  Sure,  Nature  means  to  break  her 

solid  chain, 

Or   else   unfix   the  world,  and   in  a  rage 
To    hurl    it    from    its    axletree    and    hinges; 
AH  things  are  so  confused,  the  king's  in  love, 
The  queen  is  drunk,  the  princess  married  is. 
Gri~.     Oh,  Noodle!    Hast  thou  Huncamunca 

seen? 
Nood.     I've    seen    a    thousand    sights    this 

day,  where  none 

Are  by  the  wonderful  bitch  herself  outdone. 
The  king,  the   queen,   and  all   the  court,  are 

sights. 
Gris.     m  D — n   your   delay,   you   trifler !   are 

you  drunk,  ha? 

I  will   not   hear   one   word  but  Huncamunca. 
Nood.     By    this    time    she    is    married    to 

Tom  Thumb. 

Grig.     ai  My  Huncamunca! 
Nood.     Your  Huncamunca, 
Tom     Thumb's     Huncamunca,     every    man's 

Huncamunca. 
Gris.     If   this   be   true,   all   womankind  are 

damned. 

Nood.     If  it  be  not,  may  I  be  so  myself. 
Gris.     See  where   she   comes!     I'll  not   be- 
lieve a  word 

Against  that  face,  upon  whose  "-'  ample  brow 
Sits  innocence   with   majesty   enthroned. 

GRIZZLE,    HUNCAMUNCA. 

Gris.     Where  has   my  Huncamunca  been? 

See  here. 
The  licence  in  my  hand! 

**  Our    author    hath    been    plundered    here, 
according    to    custom: 
Great    Nature,    break    thy    chain    that    links 

together 

The  fabric  of  the  world,  and  make  a  chaos 
Like  that  within  my  soul.      Love  Triumphant. 

Startle    Nature,    unfix    the    globe, 

And   hurl   it   from   its   axletree  and   hinges. 

Albion   Queens. 
The    tottering    earth    seems    sliding    off    its 

props. 

90  D— n    your   delay,    ye   torturers,   proceed; 
I   will   not   hear   one  word   but  Almahide. 

Conquest  of  Granada. 

n  Mr.    Dryden    hath    imitated    this    in    All 
for   Love. 

82  This   Miltonic  style  abounds  in  the  New 
Sophonisba : 

— And  on  her  ample  brow 
Sat  majesty. 


Hunc.  Alas!    Tom    Thumb. 

Gris.     Why  dost  thou  mention  him? 
Hunc.  Ah,  me!  Tom  Thumb. 

Gris.  What  means  my  lovely  Huncamunca? 
Hunc.  Hum! 

Gris.     Oh !    speak. 
Hunc.        Hum ! 

Gris.  Ha!  your  every  word  is  hum: 

•'':  You    force    me    still    to    answer    you,    Tom 

Thumb. 

Tom  Thumb — I'm  on  the  rack — I'm  in  a  flame. 
w  Tom    Thumb,    Tom   Thumb,   Tom   Thumb — 

you   love   the   name; 
So   pleasing   is    that    sound,    that,    were    you 

dumb, 
You    still    would    find    a    voice    to    cry    Tom 

Thumb. 
Hunc.     Oh!  be   not  hasty   to  proclaim   my 

doom! 

My  ample  heart  for  more  than  one  has  room: 
A  maid  like  me  Heaven  formed  at  least  for 

two. 

81 1  married  him,  and  now  I'll  marry  you. 
Gris.     Ha!  dost  thou  own  thy  falsehood  to 

my    face  ? 

Thinkest    thou    that    I    will    share    thy    hus- 
band's place? 

Since   to   that   office   one   cannot   suffice, 
And  since  you  scorn  to  dine  one  single  dish 

on, 

Go,   get  your   husband  put  into  commission. 
Commissioners     to    discharge     (ye    gods!    it 

fine  is) 

The  duty  of  a  husband  to  your  highness. 
Yet  think  not  long  I  will  my  rival  bear, 
Or  unrevenged  the  slighted  willow  wear; 
The    gloomy,    brooding    tempest,    now    con- 
fined 

Within  the  hollow  caverns  of  my  mind, 
In  dreadful  whirl  shall  roll  along  the  coasts, 
Shall  thin  the  land  of  all  the  men  it  boasts, 
96  And    cram    up    every    chink    of    hell    with 
ghosts. 

83  Your  every  answer  still   so  ends   in  that, 
You   force   me   still   to  answer  you  Morat. 

Aurengsebe. 

"Morat,   Morat,   Morat!   you  love   the  name. 

Ibid. 

85 "  Here  is  a  sentiment  for  the  virtuous 
Huncamunca!  "  says  Mr.  D — s.  And  yet, 
with  the  leave  of  this  great  man,  the  vir- 
tuous Panthea,  in  Cyrus,  hath  an  heart  every 
whit  as  ample: 

For  two  I  must  confess  are  gods  to  me, 
Which  is   my   Abradatus   first,   and    thee. 
Cyrus  the   Great. 

Nor    is    the    lady   in    Love    Triumphant    more 
reserved,    though    not    so    intelligible: 

I  am  so  divided, 
That  I  grieve  most  for  both,   and  love  both 

most. 

86  A  ridiculous  supposition  to  any  one  who 
considers  the  great  and  extensive  largeness 


310 


TOM  THUMB  THE  GREAT 


ACT  III,  Sc.  I. 


97  So  have  I  seen,  in  some  dark  winter's  day, 
A  sudden  storm  rush  down  the  sky's  highway, 
Sweep  through  the  streets  with  terrible  ding- 
dong, 

Gush   through    the    spouts,   and    wash   whole 

crowds   along. 
The    crowded    shops    the    thronging    vermin 

screen, 

Together  cram  the  dirty  and  the  clean, 
And  not  one  shoe-boy  in  the  street  is  seen. 
Hunc.     Oh,  fatal  rashness!  should  his  fury 

slay 

My  hapless  bridegroom  on  his  wedding-day, 
I,  who  this  morn  of  two  chose  which  to  wed, 
May  go  again  this  night  alone  to  bed. 

98  So   have   I   seen   some   wild   unsettled   fool, 

of  hell,  says  a  commentator;  but  not  so  to 
those  who  consider  the  great  expansion  of 
immaterial  substance.  Mr.  Banks  makes  one 
soul  to  be  so  expanded,  that  heaven  could 
not  contain  it: 

The  heavens  are  all  too  narrow  for  her  soul. 
Virtue  Betrayed. 

The   Persian   Princess   hath   a    passage    not 
unlike   the   author  of  this: 
We    will    send     such     shoals     of    murdered 

slaves, 

Shall    glut    hell's    empty    regions. 
This    threatens    to    fill    hell,    even    though   it 
were    empty:    Lord    Grizzle,    only    to    fill    up 
the  chinks,    supposing   the   rest  already   full. 

97  Mr.     Addison     is     generally     thought     to 
have    had    this    simile    in    his    eye    when    he 
wrote   that   beautiful   one   at  the   end   of   the 
third  act  of  his  Cato. 

98  This    beautiful    simile    is    founded    on    a 
proverb    which    does    Honor    to    the    English 
language : 

Between     two     stools     the    breech     falls 
to  the  ground. 

I  am  not  so  well  pleased  with  any  written 
remains  of  the  ancients  as  with  those  little 
aphorisms  which  verbal  tradition  hath  de- 
livered down  to  us  under  the  title  of  prov- 
erbs. It  were  to  be  wished  that,  instead  of 
filling  their  pages  with  the  fabulous  theology 
of  the  pagans,  our  modern  poets  would  think 
it  worth  their  while  to  enrich  their  works 
with  the  proverbial  sayings  of  their  an- 
cestors. Mr.  Dryden  hath  chronicled  one 
in  heroic: 

Two   ifs    scarce   make   one   possibility. 

Conquest  of  Granada. 

My  Lord  Bacon  is  of  opinion  that,  what- 
ever is  known  of  arts  and  sciences  might  be 
proved  to  have  lurked  in  the  Proverbs  of 
Solomon.  I  am  of  the  same  opinion  in  re- 
lation to  those  above  mentioned;  at  least  I 
am  confident  that  a  more  perfect  system  of 
ethics,  as  well  as  economy,  might  be  com- 
piled out  of  them  than  is  at  present  extant, 
either  in  the  works  of  the  ancient  philoso- 


Who  had  her  choice  of  this  and  that  joint- 
stool, 

To   give   the  preference  to  either  loth, 
And  fondly  coveting  to  sit  on  both, 
While    the   two    stools   her   sitting-part   con- 
found. 

Between  'em  both  fall  squat  upon  the 
ground. 

ACT  III 

SCENE   I 
KING  ARTHUR'S  Palace. 

99  Ghost  (solus).  Hail!  ye  black  horrors  of 
midnight's  midnoon ! 

Ye  fairies,  goblins,  bats,  and  screech-owls, 
hail! 

And,  oh!  ye  mortal  watchmen,  whose  hoarse 
throats 

The  immortal  ghosts'  dread  croakings  coun- 
terfeit, 

All  hail ! — Ye  dancing  phantoms,  who,  by  day, 

Are  some  condemned  to  fast,  some  feast  in 
fire, 

Now  play  in  churchyards,  skipping  o'er  the 
graves, 

To   the   10°  loud   music   of   the   silent   bell, 

All  hail! 

phers,  or  those  more  valuable,  as  more  volu- 
minous ones  of  the  modern  divines. 

99  Of  all  the  particulars  in  which  the  mod- 
ern stage  falls  short  of  the  ancient,  there  is 
none   so  much   to  be  lamented  as   the   great 
scarcity    of    ghosts    in    the    latter.      Whence 
this   proceeds   I   will   not   presume    to   deter- 
mine.   Some  are  of  opinion  that  the  moderns 
are  unequal  to  that  sublime  language  which 
a    ghost    ought    to    speak.      One    says,    ludi- 
crously, that  ghosts  are  out  of  fashion;  an- 
other   that    they    are    properer    for    comedy; 
forgetting,    I     suppose,    that    Aristotle    hath 
told  us  that  a  ghost  is  the  soul  of  tragedy; 
for  so  I  render  the  </<vx>?  o  ^.CSos   TTJS   Tpayta&ia? 
which  M.  Dacier,  amongst  others,  hath  mis- 
taken;  I   suppose   misled  by   not   understand- 
ing the  Fabula  of  the  Latins,  which  signifies 
a  ghost   as    well  as   a   fable. 

"  Te  premet   nox,   fabulxque   manes." 

Horace. 

Of  all  the  ghosts  that  have  ever  appeared 
on  the  stage,  a  very  learned  and  judicious 
foreign  critic  gives  the  preference  to  this  of 
our  author.  These  are  his  words,  speaking 
of  this  tragedy: — "Nee  quidquam  in  ilia 
admirabilius  quam  phasma  quoddam  hor- 
rendum,  quod  omnibus  aliis  spectris,  quibus- 
cum  scatet  Angelorum  tragoedia,  longe  (pace 
D — ysii  V.  Doctiss.  dixerim)  praetulerim." 

100  \ye  have  already  given  instances  of  this 
figure. 


311 


ACT  III,  Sc.  II. 


SCENE   II 
KING  and  GHOST. 

King.     What  noise   is   this?     What   villain 

dares, 

At  this  dread  hour,  with  feet  and  voice  pro- 
fane, 
Disturb  our  royal  walls? 

Ghost.  One  who   defies 

Thy   empty   power   to   hurt  him;    "''  one   who 

dares 
Walk  in  thy  bedchamber. 

King.  Presumptuous    slave ! 

Thou  diest. 

Ghost.     Threaten    others    with    that    word: 

102  I  am  a  ghost,   and  am  already  dead. 
King.     Ye  stars!  'tis  well.     Were  thy  last 

hour  to  come, 
This    moment    had    been    it;    '  ;  yet    by    thy 

shroud 
I'll    pull    thee   backward,    squeeze    thee    to    a 

bladder, 

Till   thou  dost  groan   thy  nothingness   away. 
Thou  flyest!    'Tis  well.  [Ghost  retires. 

104 1    thought    what    was    the    courage    of    a 

ghost! 

101Almanzor  reasons  in  the  same  manner: 

A  ghost  I'll  be; 

And    from    a   ghost,    you   know,   no  place   is 
free.  Conquest  of  Granada. 

ioj  «  The  man  who  writ  this  wretched  pun," 
says  Mr.  D.,  "  would  have  picked  your 
pocket:"  which  he  proceeds  to  show  not  only 
bad  in  itself,  but  doubly  so  on  so  solemn  an 
occasion.  And  yet,  in  that  excellent  play  of 
Liberty  Asserted,  we  find  something  very 
much  resembling  a  pun  in  the  mouth  of  a 
mistress,  who  is  parting  with  the  lover  she 
is  fond  of: 

VI.     Oh,    mortal   woe!   one   kiss,   and   then 

farewell. 
Irene.     The   gods   have   given   to  others   to 

fare  well. 

O!  miserably  must  Irene  fare. 
Agamemnon,   in   the   Victim,    is   full   as   face- 
tious on   the   most    solemn   occasion — that  of 
sacrificing  his  daughter: 
Yes,    daughter,    yes;    you    will    assist    the 

priest; 

Yes,    you    must    offer    up    your — vows    for 
Greece. 

103  I'll  pull  thee  backwards  by  thy  shroud  to 

light, 

Or  else  I'll  squeeze  thee,  like  a  bladder,  there, 

And  make  thee  groan  thyself  away   to  air. 
Conquest  of  Granada. 

Snatch  me,  ye  gods,  this  moment  into  noth- 
ing. Cyrus   the   Great. 

101  So,   art   thou    gone?     Thou   canst   no  con- 
quest  boast. 

I  thought  what  was  the  courage  of  a  ghost. 
Conquest  of  Granada. 


Yet,  dare  not,  on  thy  life— Why  say  I  that, 
Since  life  thou  hast  not?— Dare  not  walk 

again 

Within  these  walls,  on  pain  of  the  Red  Sea. 
For,  if  henceforth  I  ever  find  thee  here, 

As  sure,  sure  as  a  gun,  I'll  have  thee  laid 

Ghost.     Were    the   Red   Sea   a    sea   of   Hol- 
land's gin, 

The  liquor  (when  alive)  whose  very  smell 
I  did  detest,  did  loathe — yet,  for  the  sake 
Of  Thomas  Thumb,   I  would  be  laid  therein. 
King.     Ha!  said  you? 

Ghost.     Yes,  my  liege,  I   said  Tom  Thumb, 
Whose    father's    ghost    I    am— once    not    un- 
known 

To  mighty  Arthur.    But,  I  see,  'tis  true, 
The  dearest  friend,  when  dead,  we  all  forget. 
King.     'Tis    he— it     is    the     honest    Gaffer 

Thumb. 

Oh!  let  me  press  thee  in  my  eager  arms, 
Thou   best   of   ghosts!  thou   something   more 

than  ghost! 
Ghost.     Would  I  were  something  more,  that 

we  again 

Might  feel  each  other  in  the  warm  embrace. 
But  now  I  have  the  advantage  of  my  king, 
103  For  I  feel  thee,  whilst  thou  dost  not  feel 

me. 
King.     But    say,    10°  thou    dearest    air,    Oh ! 

say  what  dread, 

Important  business  sends  thee  back  to  earth  ? 
Ghost.     Oh!    then    prepare    to    hear— which 

but  to  hear 

Is  full  enough  to  send  thy  spirit  hence. 
Thy  subjects  up  in  arms,  by  Grizzle  led, 
Will,    ere    the    rosy-fingered    morn    shall    ope 
The  shutters  of  the   sky,  before  the  gate 
Of   this    thy   royal    palace,    swarming   spread. 
107  So    have    I     seen     the     bees     in     clusters 

swarm, 

So  have  I  seen  the  stars  in  frosty  night*, 
So  have  I  seen  the  sand  in  windy  days. 
So  have  I  seen  the  ghosts  on  Pluto's  shore, 
So  have  I  seen  the  flowers   in   spring   arise, 
So  have  I  seen  the  leaves  in  autumn  fall, 
So  have  I  seen  the  fruits    in    summer    smile, 
So  have  I  seen  the  snow  in  winter  frown. 


King  Arthur  seems   to  be  as  brave  a  fellow 
as    Almanzor,   who   says    most   heroically, 

In  spite  of  ghosts  I'll  on. 
105  The    ghost   of   Lausaria,    in    Cyrus,    is    a 
plain    copy    of   this,    and    is    therefore    worth 
reading: 
Ah,  Cyrus! 
Thou   mayest  as   well   grasp   water,   or   fleet 

air, 
As  think  of  touching  my  immortal  shade. 

Cyrus  the  Great. 
106  Thou   better   part   of   heavenly    air. 

Conquest  of  Granada. 

107  "  A  string  of  similes,"  says  one,  "  proper 
to  be  hung  up   in  the  cabinet   of  a  prince." 


312 


TOM  THUMB  THE  GREAT 


ACT  III,  Sc.  VI. 


King.     D — n  all  thou  hast  seen!  dost  thou, 

beneath    the    shape 

Of  Gaffer   Thumb,    come   hither  to   abuse   me 
With   similes,   to  keep  me  on  the  rack? 
Hence — or,    by   all   the   torments   of   thy   hell, 

108  I'll    run    thee    through    the    body,    though 

thou'st  none. 
Ghost.     Arthur,      beware!      I      must      this 

moment  hence, 
Not    frighted    by    your    voice,    but    by    the 

cocks ! 

Arthur   beware,    beware,   beware,   beware! 
Strive  to  avert  thy  yet  impending  fate; 
For,  if  thou'rt  killed  to-day, 
To-morrow   all   thy   care   will   come   too   late. 

SCENE   III 
KING,   solus. 

King.  Oh!  stay,  and  leave  me  not  uncer- 
tain thus! 

And,  whilst  thou  tellest  me  what's  like  my 
fate, 

Oh !  teach  me  how  I  may  avert  it  too ! 

Cursed  be  the  man  who  first  a  simile  made! 

Cursed  every  bard  who  writes! — So  have  I 
seen 

Those  whose  comparisons  are  just  and  true, 

And  those   who   liken   things   not  like  at  all. 

The   devil   is   happy   that   the   whole   creation 

Can  furnish  out  no  simile  to  his  fortune. 

SCENE  IV 
KING,  QUEEN. 

Queen.     What    is    the    cause,    my    Arthur, 

that  you   steal 

Thus   silently   from   Dollallolla's  breast? 
Why    dost    thou    leave    me    in    the    109  dark 

alone, 
When    well    thou    knowest    I    am    afraid    of 

sprites  ? 
King.     Oh,    Dollallolla!    do    not    blame    my 

love! 
I  hoped  the  fumes  of  last  night's  punch  had 

laid 

Thy  lovely  eyelids  fast.— But,  oh!  I  find 
There  is  no  power  in  drams   to  quiet  wives; 
Each  morn,  as  the  returning  sun,  they  wake, 
And   shine   upon    their   husbands. 

108  This  passage  hath  been  understood  sev- 
eral   different    ways    by    the    commentators. 
For  my  part,  I  find  it  difficult  to  understand 
it  at  all.    Mr.  Dryden  says — 
I've  heard  something   how  two  bodies   meet, 
But  how  two  souls  join  I  know  not. 
So   that,   till    the  body  of   a    spirit   be   better 
understood,  it  will  be  difficult  to  understand 
how   it  is  possible   to  run   him   through  it. 

109  Cydaria  is  of  the  same  fearful  temper  with 

Dollallolla. 
I  never  durst  in  darkness  be  alone. 

Indian    Emperor. 


Queen.  Think,   Oh   think! 

What  a  surprise  it  must  be  to  the  sun, 
Rising,   to  find  the  vanished  world  away. 
What    less   can   be    the   wretched   wife's    sur- 
prise 
When,  stretching  out  her  arms  to  fold  thee 

fast, 
She  folds  her  useless  bolster  in  her  arms. 

110  Think,    think,    on    that.— Oh!    think,    think 

well  on   that! 
I   do  remember  also   to  have  read 

111  In    Dryden's    Ovid's    Metamorphoses, 
That  Jove  in   form   inanimate  did  lie 

With  beauteous   Denae:   and,  trust  me,  love, 
112 1    feared    the   bolster   might    have    been    a 

Jove. 
King.     Come   to   my   arms,    most    virtuous 

of  thy  sex; 

Oh,  Dollallolla!  were  all  wives  like  thee, 
So    many    husbands    never   had    worn    horns. 
Should    Huncamunca   of    thy    worth    partake, 
Tom    Thumb    indeed    were    blest. — Oh,    fatal 

name! 
For    didst    thou    know    one    quarter    what    I 

know, 
Then   wouldst    thou    know — Alas!   what    thou 

wouldst  know! 
Queen.     What   can   I   gather  hence?     Why 

dost  thou  speak 

Like  men  who  carry  rareeshows  about? 
"  Now   you    shall    see,    gentlemen,    what    you 

shall  see." 
O,  tell  me  more,  or  thou  hast  told  too  much. 

SCENE  V 
KING,   QUEEN,    NOODLE. 

Nood.     Long    life    attend    your    majesties 

serene, 

Great    Arthur,   king,    and    Dollallolla,    queen! 
Lord   Grizzle,    with   a   bold    rebellious    crowd, 
Advances  to  the  palace,  threatening  loud, 
Unless  the  princess  be  delivered  straight, 
And  the  victorious  Thumb,  without  his  pate, 
They  are  resolved   to  batter  down  the  gate. 

SCENE  VI 
KING,    QUEEN,    HUNCAMUNCA,    NOODLE. 

King.     See     where     the     princess     comes! 
Where  is  Tom  Thumb? 

110  Think  well  of  this,  think  that,  think  every 
way.  Sophonisba. 

111  These  quotations  are  more  usual  in  the 
comic   than   in   the   tragic   writers. 

112  «  -phis  distress,"   says   Mr.   D— ,  "  I  must 
allow  to  be  extremely  beautiful,  and  tends  to 
heighten    the    virtuous    character    of    Dollal- 
lolla,  who  is  so  exceeding  delicate,  that   she 
is  in  the  highest  apprehension  from   the   in- 
animate  embrace   of   a   bolster.     An   example 
worthy    of   imitation    for   all    our    writers    of 
tragedy." 


313 


ACT  III,  Sc.  VIII. 


TOM  THUMB  THE  GREAT 


I  In  nc.  Oh!  sir,  about  an  hour  and  half 

ago 

He  sallied  out  to  encounter  with  the  foe, 
And   swore,   unless  his   fate   had   him   misled, 
From  Grizzle's  shoulders  to  cut  off  his  head, 
And   serve't   up   with   your   chocolate   in   bed. 
King.     'Tis  well,  I  found  one  devil  told  us 

both. 

Come,   Dollallolla,    Huncamunca,   come; 
Within  we'll  wait  for  the  victorious  Thumb: 
In  peace  and  safety  we  secure  may  stay, 
While  to  his  arm  we  trust  the  bloody  fray; 
Though  men  and  giants  should  conspire  with 

gods, 
113  He  is  alone  equal  to  all  these  odds. 

Queen.     He    is,    indeed,    " '  a   helmet    to    us 

all; 

While  he  supports  we  need  not  fear  to  fall; 
His  arm  dispatches  all  things  to  our  wish, 
And  serves  up  every  foe's  head  in  a  dish. 

"  Credat  Judaeus  Appella, 
Non  ego," 

says  Mr.  D — .  "  For,  passing  over  the  ab- 
surdity of  being  equal  to  odds,  can  we  pos- 
sibly suppose  a  little  insignificant  fellow — I 
say  again,  a  little  insignificant  fellow— able 
to  vie  with  a  strength  which  all  the  Samsons 
and  Herculeses  of  antiquity  would  be  unable 
to  encounter?  "  I  shall  refer  this  incredu- 
lous critic  to  Mr.  Dryden's  defence  of  his 
Almanzor;  and,  lest  that  should  not  satisfy 
him,  I  shall  quote  a  few  lines  from  the  speech 
of  a  much  braver  fellow  than  Almanzor,  Mr. 
Johnson's  Achilles: 

Though  human  race  rise  in  embattled  hosts, 
To  force  her  from  my  arms — Oh!  son  of 

Atreus! 
By    that    immortal    power,    whose    deathless 

spirit 

Informs   this   earth,  I   will   oppose   them    all. 

Victim. 

114  "  I  have  heard  of  being  supported  by  a 
staff,"  says  Mr.  D.,  "  but  never  of  being 
supported  by  an  helmet."  I  believe  he  never 
heard  of  sailing  with  wings,  which  he  may 
read  in  no  less  a  poet  than  Mr.  Dryden: 
Unless  we  borrow  wings,  and  sail  through 

air.  Love  Triumphant. 

What  will  he  say  to  a  kneeling  valley? 

I'll   stand 

Like  a  safe  valley,  that  low  bends  the  knee 
To  some  aspiring  mountain.  Injured  Love. 
I  am  ashamed  of  so  ignorant  a  carper,  who 
doth  not  know  that  an  epithet  in  tragedy  is 
very  often  no  other  than  an  expletive.  Do 
not  we  read  in  the  New  Sophonisba  of 
"  grinding  chains,  blue  plagues,  white  occa- 
sions, and  blue  serenity?  "  Nay,  it  is  not 
the  adjective  only,  but  sometimes  half  a 
sentence  is  put  by  way  of  expletive,  as, 
"  Beauty  pointed  high  with  spirit,"  in  the 
same  play;  and,  "In  the  lap  of  blessing,  to 
be  most  curst,"  in  the  Revenge. 


Void  is  the  mistress  of  the  house  of  care, 
While    the    good    cook    presents    the    bill    of 

fare; 

Whether  the  cod,  that  northern  king  of  fish, 
Or  duck,  or  goose,  or  pig,  adorn  the  dish, 
No  fears  the  number  of  her  guests  afford, 
But  at  her  hour  she  sees  the  dinner  on  the 

board. 

SCENE  VII 
A  Plain. — GRIZZLE,  POODLE,  and  Rebels. 

(,!•!'.     Thus  far  our  arms  with  victory  are 

crowned; 
For,    though    we    have    not    fought,    yet    we 

have  found 
115  No  enemy   to  fight  withal. 

Food.  Yet  I, 

Methinks,  would  willingly  avoid  this  day, 
110  This  first  of  April,  to  engage  our  foes. 
Gri~.     This  day,  of  all  the  days  of  the  year, 

I'd  choose, 

For  on  this  day  my  grandmother  was  born. 
Gods !     I    will   make    Tom   Thumb    an   April- 
fool; 
117  Will    teach    his    wit    an    errand    it    ne'er 

knew, 

And  send  it  post  to  the  Elysian  shades. 
Food.     I'm    glad    to    find    our    army    is    so 

stout, 

Nor  does  it  move  my  wonder  less  than  joy. 
Gris.     118  What   friends    we   have,    and   how 

we  came  so  strong, 
I'll  softly  tell  you  as  we  march  along. 


SCENE  VIII 

Thunder  and  Lightning. — TOM  THUMB,  GLUM- 
DALCA,   cum  suis. 

Thumb.     Oh,  Noodle!  hast  thou  seen  a  day 

like   this? 

119  The     unborn     thunder     rumbles     o'er    our 
heads, 

115  A  victory  like  that  of  Almanzor: 
Almanzor    is    victorious    without    fight. 

Conquest  of  Granada. 
us  Well    have    we    chose    an    happy    day    for 

fight; 

For  every  man,  in  course  of  time,  has  found 
Some  days  are  lucky,  some  unfortunate. 

King   Arthur. 

117  We  read  of  such  another  in  Lee: 
Teach  his  rude  wit  a  flight  she  never  made, 
And  send  her  post  to  the  Elysian  shade. 

Gloriana. 

118  These   lines   are   copied   verbatim    in   the 
Indian  Emperor. 

118  Unborn    thunder    rolling   in    a    cloud. 

Conquest    of   Granada. 


314 


TOM  THUMB  THE  GREAT 


ACT  III,  Sc.    IX. 


and    earth    in    wild    confusion 


120  As    if    the    gods    meant    to    unhinge    the 

world; 
And    heaven 

hurl; 

Yet    will    I    boldly    tread    the    tottering   ball. 
Merl.     Tom   Thumb! 

What   voice    is    this    I    hear? 


Thumb. 

Merl. 

Thumb. 

Merl. 

Glum. 

Thumb. 


Tom    Thumb  f 
Again  it  calls. 

Tom    Thumb! 

It     calls    again, 

Appear,   whoe'er   thou  art;   I   fear 
thee  not. 
Merl.     Thou   hast   no   cause   to  fear,   I   am 

thy  friend, 

Merlin  by  name,  a  conjurer  by  trade, 
And  to  my  art  thou  dost  thy  being  owe. 
Thumb.     How! 

Merl.     Hear    then    the    mystic    getting    of 
Tom  Thumb. 

121  His    father   was   a   ploughman   plain, 

His  mother  milked  the  cow; 
And  yet  the  way  to  get  a  son 

This  couple  knew  not   how. 
Until  such  time  the  good  old  man 

To   learned   Merlin   goes, 
And  there  to  him,  in  great  distress, 

In   secret   manner   shows; 
How  in  his  heart  he  wished  to  have 

A  child,   in  time  to  come, 
To  be   his  heir,  though  it   may  be 

No  bigger  than  his  thumb: 
Of  which  old  Merlin  was   foretold 

That   he   his   wish  should   have; 
And  so  a  son  of  stature  small 

The  charmer  to  him  gave. 

Thou'st  heard  the  past,  look  up  and  see  the 

future. 
Thumb.     122  Lost  in   amazement's   gulf,   my 

senses  sink; 

See  there,  Glumdalca,  see  another  123   me! 
Glum.     O,    sight    of    horror!    see,    you    are 

devoured 
By  the  expanded  jaws  of  a  red  cow. 


Merl.     Let     not 
noble  mind, 


these     sights     deter     thy 


120  Were  heaven  and  earth  in  wild  confusion 

hurled, 
Should    the    rash    gods    unhinge    the    rolling 

world, 

Undaunted  would  I  tread   the  tottering  ball, 
Crushed,    but    unconquered,    in    the    dreadful 

fall.  Female    Warrior. 

121  See   the  History   of  Tom   Thumb,   page   2. 

122  Amazement   swallows   up  my  sense, 
And  in   the  impetuous   whirl  of  circling  fate 
Drinks  down  my  reason.  Persian  Princess. 

123  I  have  outfaced  myself. 
What!  am  I  two?     Is  there  another  me? 

King   Arthur. 


124  For,  lo !  a  sight  more  glorious  courts   thy 

eyes.     • 

See  from  afar  a  theatre  arise; 
There    ages,    yet    unbofn,    shall    tribute    pay 
To  the  heroic  actions  of  this  day; 
Then   buskin  tragedy  at  length   shall   choose 
Thy   name   the   best   supporter   of   her   muse. 
Thumb.     Enough:   let  every   warlike  music 

sound. 
We   fall  contented,   if  we   fall   renown'd. 

SCENE   IX 

LORD    GRIZZLE,    FOODLE,    Rebels,   on    one   side; 
TOM    THUMB,    GLUMDALCA,    on    the    other. 
Food.     At  length  the  enemy  advances  nigh, 
125 1   hear   them   with   my   ear,    and   see   them 

with   my   eye. 
Griz.     Draw  all  your  swords:  for  liberty  we 

fight, 
128  And  liberty  the  mustard  is  of  life. 

Thumb.     Are    you     the    man     whom    men 

famed  Grizzle  name? 
Gris.     127  Are    you    the    much    more    famed 

Tom  Thumb? 
Thumb.  The   same. 

Griz.     Come  on;  our  worth  upon  ourselves 

we'll  prove; 
For  liberty  I  fight. 

Thumb.  And  I  for  love. 

[A  bloody  engagement  between  the  two 
armies  here;  drums  beating,  trumpets 
sounding,  thunder  and  lightning.  They 
fight  off  and  on  several  times.  Some 
fall.  GRIZZLE  and  GLUMDALCA  remain. 

124  The  character  of  Merlin  is  wonderful 
throughout;  but  most  so  in  this  prophetic 
part.  We  find  several  of  these  prophecies  in 
the  tragic  authors,  who  frequently  take  this 
opportunity  to  pay  a  compliment  to  their 
country,  and  sometimes  to  their  prince. 
None  but  our  author  (who  seems  to  have  de- 
tested the  least  appearance  of  flattery)  would 
have  passed  by  such  an  opportunity  of  being 
a  political  prophet. 

123 1  saw  the  villain,  Myron;  with  these  eyes 
I    saw    him.  Busiris. 

In  both  which  places  it  is  intimated  that  it 
is  sometimes  possible  to  see  with  other  eyes 
than  your  own. 

126 "  This  mustard,"  says  Mr.  D.,  "  is 
enough  to  turn  one's  stomach.  I  would  be 
glad  to  know  what  idea  the  author  had  in  his 
head  when  he  wrote  it."  This  will  be,  I  be- 
lieve, best  explained  by  a  line  of  Mr.  Dennis: 
And  gave  him  liberty,  the  salt  of  life. 

Liberty   Asserted. 

The  understanding  that  can  digest  the  one 
will  not  rise  at  the  other. 

127  Han.     Are    you     the    chief    whom    men 
famed    Scipio    call? 

Scip.     Are     you     the    much    more    famous 
Hannibal?  Hannibal. 


315 


ACT  III,  Sc.  X. 


TOM  THUMB  THE  GREAT 


Glum.     Turn,    coward,    turn;    nor    from    a 

woman   fly. 
Gric.     Away— thou   art   too  ignoble   for  my 

arm. 

Glum.     Have  at  thy  heart. 
Gris.  Nay,  then  I  thrust  at  thine. 

Glum.     You  push  too  well;  you've  run  me 

through  the  guts. 
And  I  am  dead. 

Gris.  Then    there's  an   end   of   one. 

Thumb.     When  thou  art  dead,  then  there's 

an  end  of  two, 
118  Villain. 

Gris.     Tom   Thumb! 

Thumb.     Rebel! 

Gris.     Tom   Thumb! 

Thumb.     Hell! 

Griz.     Huncamunca ! 

Thumb.    Thou  hast  it  there. 

Griz.     Too  sure  I  feel  it. 

Thumb.     To  hell  then,  like  a  rebel  as  you 

are, 

And  give  my  service  to  the  rebels  there. 
Gris.     Triumph  not,  Thumb,  nor  think  thou 

shalt   enjoy 

Thy    Huncamunca   undisturbed;    I'll    send 
r-J  My  ghost  to  fetch  her  to  the  other  world; 

130  It   shall  but  bait  at  heaven,  and  then  re- 

turn. 

131  But,    ha !    I    feel    death    rumbling    in    my 

brains: 

132  Some   kinder   sprite    knocks    softly   at   my 

soul, 


128  Dr.    Young    seems    to    have    copied    this 
engagement   in   his   Buriris: 
Myr.     Villain ! 
Mem.     Myron! 
Myr.     Rebel! 
Mem.     Myron! 
Myr.     Hell! 
Mem.     Mandane! 

128  This    last    speech    of    my    Lord  '  Grizzle 
hath  been  of  great  service  to  our  poets: 

I'll  hold  it  fast 
As   life,   and   when   life's   gone   I'll   hold   this 

last; 
And    if    thou    takest    it    from    me    when    I'm 

slain, 

I'll  send  my  ghost,  and  fetch  it  back  again. 
Conquest  of  Granada. 

i3o  My  soui  should  with  such  speed  obey, 
It  should  not  bait  at  heaven  to  stop  its  way. 
Lee    seems    to    have    had    this    last    in    his 
eye: 

'Twas   not   my   purpose,   sir,   to   tarry   there; 
I  would  but  go  to  heaven  to  take  the  air. 

Gloriana. 
IS1  A  rising  vapor  rumbling  in  my  brains. 

Cleomenes. 
132  Some    kind    sprite    knocks    softly    at    my 

soul, 
To  tell  me  fate's  at  hand. 


And    gently    whispers   it   to   haste   away. 
I   come,   I   come,  most   willingly   I   come. 
133  So  when   some   city  wife,  for  country  air, 
To    Hampstead    or    to    Highgate    does   repair, 
Her  to  make  haste  her  husband  does  implore, 
And   cries,    "  My   dear,    the   coach   is    at    the 

door:" 

With    equal   wish,    desirous    to    be    gone, 
She  gets  into  the  coach,  and  then  she  cries — 

"  Drive   on !  " 
Thumb.     With      those     last     words     134  he 

vomited  his  soul, 
Which,         like    whipt    cream,    the    devil    will 

swallow  down. 

Bear  off  the  body,  and  cut  off  the  head, 
Which  I  will  to  the  king  in  triumph  lug. 
Rebellion's   dead,   and   now   I'll   go   to  break- 
fast. 

SCENE  X 
KING,   QUEEN,   HUNCAMUNCA,  Courtiers. 

King.     Open  the  prisons,  set  the  wretched 

free, 

And  bid  our  treasurer  disburse  six  pounds 
To  pay  their  debts. — Let  no  one  weep  to-day. 
Come,  Dollallolla;   'curse  that  odious  name! 
It  is  so  long,  it  asks  an  hour  to  speak  it. 
By  heavens!  I'll  change  it  into  Doll,  or  Loll, 
Or  any  other  civil  monosyllable, 
That  will  not  tire  my  tongue. — Come,  sit  thee 

down. 

Here  seated  let  us  view  the  dancers'  sports; 
Bid  'em  advance.     This  is  the  wedding-day 
Of    Princess   Huncamunca   and   Tom   Thumb; 
Tom     Thumb !     who     wins     two     victories 137 

to-day, 
And     this    way    marches,    bearing    Grizzle's 

head. 

A  dance  here. 

133  Mr.    Dryden    seems    to    have    had    this 
simile  in   his  eye,   when  he  says, 
My    soul   is   packing   up,   and  just   on    wing. 
Conquest  of  Granada. 

131  And   in    a   purple   vomit    poured    his    soul. 

Cleomenes. 
135  The   devil    swallows    vulgar    souls 

Like    whipt    cream.  Sebastian. 

138  How  I  could  curse  my  name  of  Ptolemy! 
It    is    so   long,    it    asks    an   hour   to    write    it. 
By  heaven!  I'll  change  it  into  Jove  or  Mars! 
Or  any  other  civil  monosyllable, 
That  will  not  tire  my   hand.  Cleomenes, 

137  Here  is  a  visible  conjunction  of  two  days 
in  one,  by  which  our  author  may  have  either 
intended  an  emblem  of  a  wedding,  or  to 
insinuate  that  men  in  the  honey-moon  are 
apt  to  imagine  time  shorter  than  it  is.  It 
brings  into  my  mind  a  passage  in  the  comedy 
called  The  Coffee-House  Politician: 
We  will  celebrate  this  day  at  my  house  to- 
morrow. 


316 


TOM  THUMB  THE  GREAT 


ACT  III,  So.  X. 


Nood.     Oh!    monstrous,    dreadful,    terrible, 

Oh!    Oh! 

Deaf  be  my  ears,  for  ever  blind  my  eyes! 
Dumb   be   my   tongue!   feet  lame!  all   senses 
lost! 

138  Howl    wolves,    grunt    bears,    hiss    snakes, 

shriek  all  ye  ghosts! 
King.     What  does  the  blockhead  mean? 
Nood.  I   mean,   my   liege, 

139  Only  to  grace  my  tale  with  decent  horror. 
Whilst    from    my    garret,    twice    two    stories 

high, 

I  looked  abroad  into  the  streets  below, 
I  saw  Tom  Thumb  attended  by  the  mob; 
Twice    twenty    shoe-boys,    twice    two    dozen 

links, 
Chairmen     and     porters,     hackney-coachmen, 

whores; 

Aloft  he  bore  the  grizly  head  of  Grizzle; 
When  of  a  sudden  through  the  streets  there 

came 

A  cow,  of  larger  than  the  usual  size, 
And    in    a    moment — guess,    Oh!    guess    the 

rest!— 

And  in  a  moment  swallowed  up  Tom  Thumb. 
King.     Shut   up  again  the  prisons,  bid  my 

treasurer 
Not   give    three    farthings   out— hang   all   the 

culprits, 

Guilty  or  not — no  matter. — Ravish  virgins: 
Go  bid  the  schoolmasters  whip  all  their  boys ! 
Let   lawyers,    parsons,   and   physicians   loose, 
To  rob,  impose  on,  and  to  kill  the  world. 
Nood.     Her    majesty    the    queen    is    in    a 

swoon. 
Queen.     Not    so    much    in    a    swoon    but    I 

have  still 

Strength    to    reward    the    messenger    of    ill 
news.  [Kills  NOODLE. 

Nood.     O!  I  am  slain. 

Cle.     My  lover's  killed,  I  will  revenge  him 

80.  [Kills   the   QUEEN. 

Hunc.     My  mamma  killed!  vile  murderess, 

beware.  [Kills   CLEORA. 

Dood.     This  for  an  old  grudge  to  thy  heart. 

[Kills    HUN  CAM  UN  CA. 

Must.     And   this 

I   drive   to   thine,  O  Doodle!  for  a   new  one. 
[Kills    DOODLE. 

138  These  beautiful  phrases  are  all  to  be 
found  in  one  single  speech  of  King  Arthur,  or 
The  British  Worthy. 

139  I  was  but  teaching  him   to  grace  his  tale 
With    decent    horror.  Cleomenes. 


King.     Ha!   murderess    vile,    take    that. 

[Kills    MUST. 
140  And   take   thou   this. 

[Kills  himself,  and  falls. 
So  when  the  child,  whom  nurse  from  danger 

guards, 
Sends    Jack    for    mustard    with    a    pack    of 

cards, 

Kings,    queens,    and    knaves,    throw   one    an- 
other  down, 
Till     the     whole     pack     lies     scattered     and 

o'erthrown; 

So  all  our  pack  upon  the  floor  is  cast, 
And  all  I  boast  is— that  I  fall  the  last. 

[Dies. 

140  \ye   may   say   with    Dryden, 
Death   did    at   length   so   many    slain   forget, 
And    left    the    tale,    and    took    them    by    the 

great. 

I  know  of  no  tragedy  which  comes  nearer 
to  this  charming  and  bloody  catastrophe 
than  Cleomenes,  where  the  curtain  covers 
five  principal  characters  dead  on  the  stage. 
These  lines  too — 

I  asked  no  questions  then,  of  who  killed  who? 
The    bodies    tell   the    story    as    they    lie — 
seem  to  have  belonged  more  properly  to  this 
scene  of  our  author;  nor  can  I  help  imagining 
they  were  originally   his.     The  Rival  Ladies, 
too,    seem    beholden    to    this    scene: 
We're  now  a  chain  of  lovers  linked  in  death; 
Julia  goes  first,  Gonsalvo  hangs  on  her, 
And    Angelina    hangs    upon    Gonsalvo, 
As  I  on  Angelina. 

No  scene,  I  believe,  ever  received  greater 
honors  than  this.  It  was  applauded  by 
several  encores,  a  word  very  unusual  in 
tragedy.  And  it  was  very  difficult  for  the 
actors  to  escape  without  a  second  slaughter. 
This  I  take  to  be  a  lively  assurance  of  that 
fierce  spirit  of  liberty  which  remains  among 
us,  and  which  Mr.  Dryden,  in  his  Essay  on 
Dramatic  Poetry,  hath  observed:  "Whether 
custom,"  says  he,  "  hath  so  insinuated  it- 
self into  our  countrymen,  or  nature  hath  so 
formed  them  to  fierceness,  I  know  not;  but 
they  will  scarcely  suffer  combats  and  other 
objects  of  horror  to  be  taken  from  them." 
And  indeed  1  am  for  having  them  encouraged 
in  this  martial  disposition:  nor  do  I  believe 
our  victories  over  the  French  have  been 
owing  to  anything  more  than  to  those  bloody 
spectacles  daily  exhibited  in  our  tragedies, 
of  which  the  French  stage  is  so  entirely 
clear. 


317 


OLIVER   GOLDSMITH 


SHE    STOOPS    TO    CONQUER 


OLIVER  GOLDSMITH,  who  "  touched  nothing  that  he  did  not  adorn,"  as- 
sayed no  dramatic  composition  until  near  his  fortieth  year.  His  days  of 
ragged  roving  and  garret  toil  were  then  so  far  behind  him,  "  Noll  Goldsmith, 
hack-writer,"  had  so  long  since  given  place  to  the  great  Dr.  Goldsmith,  the 
friend  of  Johnson,  Reynolds,  and  Burke,  and  member  of  the  famous  "  Lit- 
erary Club,"  that  his  early  struggles  need  not  long  detain  us.  His  birth  in 
the  mean  hamlet  of  Pallas  in  Longford,  Ireland,  November  10,  1728;  his 
desultory  boyhood  in  his  father's  poor  parish  and  at  many  an  Irish 
school ;  his  four  unhappy  years  at  Trinity  College,  Dublin ;  the  season  of 
idle  waiting  and  of  aimless  wandering  that  followed,  are  of  little  import 
to  the  student  of  his  dramas.  "  He  was  a  plant  that  flowered  late,"  said 
Dr.  Johnson ;  "  there  appeared  nothing  remarkable  about  him  when  he  was 
young." 

With  the  thirties  close  upon  him,  came  London  years  of  the  lean  kine, 
during  which  he  tried  his  hand  at  every  calling — apothecary's  clerk,  physician, 
corrector  of  the  press,  usher  at  Peckham  School.  His  literary  career  opens 
ignobly  as  a  publisher's  hack,  making  prefaces  to  order,  grinding  out  re- 
views, revamping  books  with  butterfly  lives.  But  before  he  had  reached  the 
"mezzo  cammin  "  of  life,  he  had  entered  upon  the  great  work  which  he  was 
destined  to  do.  The  admirable  prose  of  The  Bee  and  of  The  Citizen  of  the 
World  was  succeeded  by  the  more  admirable  verse  of  The  Traveller  in  1764 
and  of  The  Hermit  in  1765.  After  The  Vicar  of  Wakefield  of  the  next 
year,  no  one  can  question  Goldsmith's  claim  to  the  rank  which  his  genius  has 
won.  During  the  few  years  that  remain  to  him  there  are  other  great 
achievements,  that  make  us  quite  forget  the  hack-work  of  his  Histories  and 
of  Animated  Nature  (1769-1774).  The  Deserted  Village  (1770)  is  as 
memorable  as  his  dramas.  Then  night  closes  about  him,  and  early 
in  April,  1774,  his  body  finds  a  resting-place  under  the  stones  of  the 
Temple. 

Goldsmith's  supremacy  in  every  field  of  his  various  endeavor  is  so 
readily  acknowledged  now  and  his  merits  seem  so  very  obvious,  that  it  is 
hard  for  us  to  realize  the  struggles  through  which  he  came  into  his  own. 

318 


SHE  STOOPS  TO  CONQUER 


As  doubt  and  suspense  disturbed  the  essayist,  the  poet,  the  novelist,  before 
his  works  found  the  light  amid  loud  applause,  so  long  and  agonized  waiting 
harrowed  the  sensitive  soul  of  the  dramatist.  The  history  of  the  first  of  his 
two  plays  is  one  of  a  battle  not  only  against  entrenched  opposition,  but 
against  that  indifference  which  is  often  harder  to  combat  than  actual 
enmity.  In  The  Good  Natured  Man,  begun  in  1766,  Goldsmith  set  himself 
resolutely  against  that  "  genteel "  or  "  sentimental  comedy,"  which,  born  of 
the  reaction  against  the  coarseness  of  the  Restoration  drama  and  fostered 
by  the  milk  of  human  kindness  in  Richardson's  novels,  had  now  attained  its 
full  development  on  both  sides  of  the  Channel.  Of  the  comedie  larmoyante 
Goldsmith  wrote  thus  in  a  paper  contributed  by  him  to  the  Westminster 
Magazine  (December,  1772)  :  "A  new  species  of  dramatic  composition  has 
been  introduced,  under  the  name  of  sentimental  comedy,  in  which  the  virtues 
of  private  life  are  exhibited,  rather  than  the  vices  exposed;  and  the  dis- 
tresses rather  than  the  faults  of  mankind  make  our  interest  in  the  piece. 
These  comedies  have  had  of  late  great  success,  perhaps  from  their  novelty, 
and  also  from  their  flattering  every  man  in  his  favorite  foible.  In  these 
plays  almost  all  the  characters  are  good,  and  exceedingly  generous;  they  are 
lavish  enough  of  their  tin  money  on  the  stage ;  and  though  they  want  humor, 
have  abundance  of  sentiment  and  feeling.  If  they  happen  to  have  faults  or 
foibles,  the  spectator  is  taught,  not  only  to  pardon,  but  to  applaud  them,  in 
consideration  of  the  goodness  of  their  hearts;  so  that  folly,  instead  of  being 
ridiculed,  is  commended,  and  the  comedy  aims  at  touching  our  passions  with- 
out the  power  of  being  truly  pathetic." 

The  status  of  sentimental  comedy  was  now  greatly  strengthened  by  the 
vogue  of  a  namby-pamby  specimen  of  the  genre,  Hugh  Kelly's  False  Delicacy, 
the  success  of  which  at  Drury  Lane  early  in  1768  was  hardly  a  happy  augury 
for  the  reception  of  Goldsmith's  comedy  at  Covent  Garden  a  week  later. 
There  was  much  else  to  discourage  the  new  dramatist.  Garrick,  the  Drury 
Lane  actor-manager,  had  kept  him  long  waiting  in  fuming  impatience,  and 
then  Colman  of  Covent  Garden,  into  whose  hands  the  play  passed,  had  held 
the  dejected  author  off  for  six  months  more.  Despite  a  dispirited  manager 
and  an  unequal  cast,  The  Good  Natured  Man  won  mild  favor;  but  cries 
of  "  Low !  "  "  Low !  "  greeted  the  natural  humor  of  its  bailiff  scene.  When 
Goldsmith  contrasted  the  half-success  of  his  laughable  exposure  of  follies 
with  the  tremendous  triumph  of  spurious  sensibility,  he  had  every  reason  to 
complain  that  "  humor  seems  to  be  departing  from  the  stage." 

Sentimental  comedy,  undisturbed,  ran  its  lachrymose  course  for  five 
years  more,  before  Goldsmith  struck  another  blow — this  time  with  a  stronger 
weapon.  His  second  comedy,  afterwards  called  She  Stoops  to  Conquer,  was 
finished,  we  are  told,  by  the  end  of  1771,  but  it  languished  for  over  a  year 
in  Colman's  hands  before  preparations  were  made  for  its  presentation.  In- 
deed, this  timid  manager  was  "  prevailed  on  at  last  by  much  solicitation,  nay 
a  kind  of  force  to  bring  it  on"  (Johnson).  If  Goldsmith  drew  a  favor- 

319 


SHE  STOOPS  TO  CONQUER 


able  omen  from  the  success  of  Foote's  burlesque  of  genteel  comedy,  The 
Handsome  Housemaid  or  Piety  in  Pattens  in  the  Haymarket  in  17/3,  his 
hopes  must  have  been  dashed  by  the  continued  despondency  of  Colman  and 
by  the  apathy  of  the  first  cast  of  actors,  many  of  whom  threw  up  their  parts 
after  several  dull  rehearsals.  The  failure  of  the  play  was  deemed  so  certain 
that  it  was  announced  even  in  the  box-office;  and  Goldsmith  himself  frankly 
admitted  to  Newbery,  the  purchaser  of  the  copyright,  his  own  large  doubts 
of  its  success.  These  doubts  grew  as  the  time  of  the  presentation  approached ; 
and  the  tavern  dinner,  at  which  Goldsmith's  friends  gathered  on  the  fateful 
Ides  of  March,  the  day  of  the  performance,  must  have  been  an  occasion  of 
torture  to  the  apprehensive  author,  who  could  "  hardly  speak  a  word,  but 
was  so  choked  that  he  could  not  swallow  a  mouthful."  After  the  dinner, 
his  nervous  fears  so  mastered  him,  that  he  dared  not  accompany  his  friends 
to  the  playhouse,  but  spent  his  time,  during  the  early  scenes  of  the  play, 
drearily  pacing  the  Mall  of  St.  James'  Park.  When  he  was  persuaded  by  a 
friend  who  found  him  there  to  repair  to  the  theatre,  his  ears  were  greeted 
by  "  a  solitary  hiss  at  the  improbability  of  Mrs.  Hardcastle,  in  her  own  gar- 
den, supposing  herself  forty  miles  off  on  Crackskull  Common."  At  the  sight 
of  his  alarm  Colman  won  his  undying  hatred  by  this  mean  jest :  "  Psha ! 
Doctor,  don't  be  afraid  of  a  squib,  when  we  have  been  sitting  these  two  hours 
on  a  barrel  of  gunpowder."  This  managerial  comment  was  as  untrue  as  it 
was  unkind,  for  the  enthusiastic  reception  of  the  play  seems  to  have  been 
assured  from  the  rise  of  the  curtain.  "  It  was  received  throughout  with  the 
greatest  acclamations,"  says  an  eye-witness.  And  that  writer  of  sentimental 
comedy,  Cumberland,  assuredly  a  none  too  kindly  witness,  adds :  "  All  eyes 
were  upon  Johnson,  who  sat  in  a  front  row  in  a  side  box ;  and  when  he 
laughed,  everybody  thought  himself  warranted  to  roar."  Even  Horace  Wai- 
pole,  who  found  in  the  new  comedy  much  to  condemn,  admitted  that  it  had 
"  succeeded  prodigiously." 

This  success  was  as  permanent  as  it  was  immediate.  She  Stoops  to 
Conquer  ran  its  merry  course  this  season  of  1773  (the  tenth  performance 
being  given  by  royal  command),  was  acted  in  the  summer  by  Foote  at  the 
Haymarket,  and  was  resumed  the  next  winter  at  Covent  Garden.  The 
actors,  particularly  Lewes  as  Young  Marlow  and  Quick  as  Tony  Lumpkin, 
were  made  men.  Five  editions  of  the  play  appeared  within  the  year.  And 
the  gains  of  the  improvident  author  seem  to  have  been  large.  From  that 
day  to  this  the  comedy's  hold  on  the  stage,  public  or  private,  has  never 
weakened.  In  Forster's  phrase,  "  It  still  continues  to  add  its  yearly  sum 
to  the  harmless  stock  of  public  pleasure."  Moreover,  a  blow  was  dealt  to 
"  sentimental  comedy,"  from  which  it  never  recovered,  being  finally  done  to  - 
death  by  The  School  for  Scandal  four  years  later  in  1777, — with  the  same 
actors  in  the  chief  roles. 

Yet  the  patrons  of  the  sentimental   did   not  yield   without  a  struggle. 
The   criticism   of   the   elegant   Horace    Walpole,   pompous    and   pretentious, 

320 


SHE  STOOPS  TO  CONQUER 


though  it  may  seem  to  us  now,  is  valuable  in  illustrating  a  point  of  view 
that  has  in  it  certain  elements  of  reason :  "  Dr.  Goldsmith  has  written  a 
comedy — no,  it  is  the  lowest  of  all  farces;  it  is"  not  "the  subject  I  condemn, 
though  very  vulgar,  but  the  execution.  The  drift  tends  to  no  moral,  no 
edification  of  any  kind — the  situations,  however,  are  well  imagined  and  make 
one  laugh  in  spite  of  the  grossness  of  the  dialogue,  the  forced  witticisms, 
and  total  improbability  of  the  whole  plan  and  conduct.  But  what  disgusts 
me  most  is  that,  though~fh~e  characters  are  very  low  and  aim  at  low  humor, 
not  one  of  them  says  a  sentence  that  is  natural  or  marks  any  character  at 
all."  This  attack  resolves  itself  into  four  substantial  charges :  that  the  play 
is  T*low  " ;  that  it  has  no  higher  purpose  than  to  arouse  laughter ;  that  the 
motif  and  incidents  are  improbable;  and  finally,  that  the  characterization  is 
inadequate.  Each  and  all  of  these  are  summarized  in  the  accusation  that 
She  Stoops  to  Conquer  is  not  a  comedy  at  all  but  sheer  farce.  Let  us  now,, 
weigh  each  clause  in  this  sweeping  indictment. 

The  charge  that  Goldsmith  is  "  low "  means  little  more  than  that  he 
turned  to  other  and  older  standards  of  drama  than  those  of  the  prevailing 
comedy  of  sensibility.  "  When  I  undertook  to  write  a  comedy,"  he  declares 
in  his  preface  to  The  Good  Matured  Man,  "  I  confess  I  was  strongly  pre- 
possessed in  favor  of  the  poets  of  the  last  age  and  strove  to  imitate  them. 
The  term,  '  genteel  comedy,'  was  then  unknown  among  us  and  little  more 
was  desired  by  an  audience  than  nature  and  humor  in  whatever  walks  of 
life  they  are  most  conspicuous."  In  this  return  to  fresh  and  natural  humor 
his  chief  guide  seems  to  have  been  George  Farquhar.  As  Austin  Dobson 
points  out,  he  was  reported  by  rumor  to  have  played  the  part  of  Scrub  in 
his  wandering  youth  and  he  certainly  assigned  the  role  of  Sir  Harry  Wildair 
to  the  shabby  hero  of  The  Adventures  of  a  Strolling  Player.  In  She  Stoops 
to  Conquer  there  are  several  reminiscences  of  The  Beaux'  Stratagem:  Miss 
Hardcastle  compares  herself,  in  her  maid's  disguise,  to  Cherry:  Marlow's 
desire  to  see  the  embroidery  (III,  i)  recalls  Archer's  speech  to  Mrs.  Sullen; 
and  in  Sullen,  as  we  shall  see  later,  Tony  Lumpkin  finds  a  partial  prototype. 
As  the  term,  "  low,"  had  been  fastened  upon  Farquhar  by  Pope  and  upon 
Fielding  by  Richardson,  it  seems,  as  applied  to  Goldsmith,  to  carry  the  dis- 
tinction of  a  brevet.  And  yet  it  rankled,  as  his  many  references  show.  In 
his  Present  State  of  Polite  Learning  he  anticipates  by  fifteen  years  Walpole's 
criticism :  "  By  the  power  of  one  single  monosyllable,  our  critics  have  almost 
got  the  victory  over  humor  amongst  us.  Does  the  poet  paint  the  absurdi- 
ties of  the  vulgar,  then  he  is  low ;  does  he  exaggerate  the  features  of  folly, 
to  render  it  more  thoroughly  ridiculous,  he  is  then  very  low."  And  the  seedy 
tavern  companions  at  The  Three  Jolly  Pigeons  (I,  2)  cry  out  with  uncon- 
scious irony  against  all  that  is  "  low." 

To  the  second  charge  that  She  Stoops  to  Conquer  seems  designed  merely 
to  excite  laughter,  Goldsmith  himself  would  have  promptly  pleaded  guilty. 
"That  is  all  I  require,"  he  said  to  a  friend  who  declared  that  "he  had 

321 


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laughed  exceedingly  "  on  the  opening  night.  And  Johnson,  too,  proclaimed 
laughter  to  be  the  proper  criterion  of  success  in  the  lighter  drama,  when  he 
said  of  this  very  play,  "  I  know  of  no  comedy  for  years  that  has  so  much 
exhilarated  an  audience  or  answered  so  much  the  great  end  of  comedy  in 
making  an  audience  merry."  And  there  is  no  doubt  that  this  laughter  is 
perennial.  Criticism  may  declare  the  first  scene  dramatically  ineffective  and 
regard  the  second — that  of  the  alehouse — as  sharply  and  clumsily  divided 
into  two  halves;  but  after  Tony  Lumpkin's  impish  misdirection  of  the 
travellers  has  once  released  the  flood  of  mirth,  it  sweeps  through  one  de- 
lightful situation  after  another,  bearing  away  with  it  on  a  high  tide  of  frolic 
all  critical  doubts  of  reader  or  play-goer.  Nor  is  this  humorous  satisfaction 
the  idle  and  unmeaning  laughter  awakened  by  empty  farce,  as  Walpole  would 
imply.  It  finds  full  warrant  in  the  brisk  and  gay  dialogues,  the  generous  use 
of  dramatic  irony,  the  new  and  joyous  turn  given  the  time-worn  formula 
of  mistaken  identity,  and  in  the  skill  with  which  anticipation  is  aroused  and 
then  abundantly  gratified.  The  motive  force  of  the  merry  intrigue  never 
seems  inadequate. 

Nor  need  we  enter  into  any  grave  rebuttal  of  the  charge  that  "  all  things 
befall  preposterously."  It  is  small  defence  of  the  probability  of  The  Mis- 
takes of  a  Night  (Goldsmith's  subtitle)  to  point  to  that  delicious  misad- 
venture of  the  seventeen-year  old  Goldsmith,  who  was  cleverly  misled  by  a 
waggish  fencing-master  into  taking  his  ease  at  the  home  of  a  great  Irish 
squire  and  was  not  undeceived  until  after  breakfast  on  the  morrow,  when 
"  he  was  looking  at  his  only  guinea  with  pathetic  aspect  of  farewell."  Nor 
is  it  enough  to  remind  the  reader  that  Tony's  practical  joke  upon  his  mother 
was  actually  perpetrated  by  Sheridan  at  the  expense  of  Madame  de  Genlis. 
That  these  incidents  actually  happened  makes  them  seem  not  a  whit  less 
incredible.  Equally  beyond  belief  is  Marlow's  failure  even  to  glance  at 
Miss  Hardcastle  during  their  first  interview.  All  this,  as  Johnson  says,  "  bor- 
ders upon  farce."  In  that  pleasant  borderland  of  infinite  possibilities  excel- 
lent preparation  for  the  incidents,  clever  handling  of  the  plot,  and  naturalness 
of  characters  may  impart,  however,  a  momentary  convincingness  to  the  most 
riotous  extravagances  and  absurdities.  Of  such  realistic  treatment  Gold- 
smith is  a  master. 

She  Stoops  to  Conquer  is  obviously  a  comedy  of  situation  rather  than 
of  character;  but  few  will  now  agree  with  Walpole  that  its  persons  are  un- 
natural or  merely  farcical.  The  elder  Hardcastles  are,  in  their  origin,  con- 
ventional stage  figures,  but  they  are  so  delightfully  realized  for  us  that  the 
irascibility  of  the  man  and  the  doting  fondness  of  the  woman  for  her  impish 
son  attain  to  the  level  of  "  comic  dignity."  Kate  Hardcastle  plays  her  bar- 
maid role  with  an  unforced  sprightliness  that  recalls  her  model  in  The  Beaux' 
Stratagem.  Hastings,  typical  fine  fellow,  and  that  lively  lass,  Constantia  Neville, 
are  more  truly  figures  of  comedy  than  the  Faulkland  and  Julia  of  Sheri- 
dan's Rivals.  As  has  often  been  pointed  out,  Marlow's  natural  timidity  is 

322 


SHE  STOOPS  TO  CONQUER 


as  truly  revealed  in  his  excess  of  impudence  as  in  his  excess  of  bashfulness; 
and  "  the  high  comic  intention  of  the  character  is  never  lost  in  the  merely 
comic  situation"  (Forster).  The  crowning  glory  of  the  play  is  of  course 
that  impish  sprite,  Tony  Lumpkin.  Whatever  he  may  owe  to  the  clownish 
heir  of  Steele's  comedy,  The  Tender  Husband,  Humphry  Gubbin,  whose 
relation  to  an  income  of  £1500  closely  resembles  his  own,  he  seems  rather 
a  composite  of  the  more  familiar  figures  of  clown  and  puck,  of  Farquhar's 
Sullen  and  Shakspere's  Robin  Goodfellow.  He  exhibits  all  the  young  squire's 
awkwardness,  sheepishness,  loutish  ignorance,  love  of  low  company,  and 
pride  of  purse ;  he  shares  the  village  elf's  buoyancy  of  spirit,  irresponsibility, 
cunning,  and  delight  in  mischief  that  never  degenerates  into  malice.  He 
indeed  is  of  the  essence  of  farce,  for  such  a  demon  of  fun  needs  no  motive 
for  his  rogueries. 

It  is  best  to  leave  She  Stoops  to  Conquer  in  that  mirthful  "  debatable 
land "  of  farce-comedy  with  such  worthy  fellows  as  The  Taming  of  the 
Shrew,  The  Merry  Wives  of  Windsor,  and  The  School  for  Scandal. 


SHE    STOOPS    TO    CONQUER 

OR 

THE  MISTAKES  OF  A  NIGHT 


TO  SAMUEL  JOHNSON,  LL.D. 

DEAR  SIR, — By  inscribing  this  slight  performance  to  you,  I  do  not  mean 
so  much  to  compliment  you  as  myself.  It  may  do  me  some  honor  to  inform 
the  public,  that  I  have  lived  many  years  in  intimacy  with  you.  It  may  serve 
the  interests  of  mankind  also  to  inform  them,  that  the  greatest  wit  may  be 
found  in  a  character,  without  impairing  the  most  unaffected  piety. 

I  have,  particularly,  reason  to  thank  you  for  your  partiality  to  this  per- 
formance. The  undertaking  a  comedy,  not  merely  sentimental,  was  very 
dangerous ;  and  Mr.  Colman,  who  saw  this  piece  in  its  various  stages,  always 
thought  it  so.  However,  I  ventured  to  trust  it  to  the  public ;  and,  though  it 
was  necessarily  delayed  till  late  in  the  season,  I  have  every  reason  to  be 
grateful. — I  am,  dear  Sir,  your  most  sincere  friend  and  admirer, 

OLIVER  GOLDSMITH. 


323 


PROLOGUE  SHE  STOOPS  TO  CONQUER 

PROLOGUE 
By   DAVID   GARRICK,   ESQ. 

Enter  Mr.  Woodward,  dressed  in  black,  and  holding  a  Handkerchief  to  his 

Eyes. 

Excuse  me,  sirs,  I  pray — I  can't  yet  speak — 
I'm  crying  now — and  have  been  all  the  week ! 
'Tis  not  alone  this  mourning  suit,  good  masters ; 
I've  that  within — for  which  there  are  no  plasters! 
Pray  would  you  know  the  reason  why  I'm  crying? 
The  Comic  muse,  long  sick,  is  now  a-dying ! 
And  if  she  goes,  my  tears  will  never  stop ; 
For  as  a  player,  I  can't  squeeze  out  one  drop : 
I  am  undone,  that's  all — shall  lose  my  bread — 
I'd  rather,  but  that's  nothing — lose  my  head. 
When  the  sweet  maid  is  laid  upon  the  bier, 
Shuter  and  /  shall  be  chief  mourners  here. 
To  her  a  mawkish  drab  of  spurious  breed, 
Who  deals  in  sentimentals  will  succeed ! 
Poor  Ned  and  7  are  dead  to  all  intents, 
We  can  as  soon  speak  Greek  as  sentiments! 
Both  nervous  grown,  to  keep  our  spirits  up, 
We  now  and  then  take  down  a  hearty  cup. 
What  shall  we  do? — If  Comedy  forsake  us! 
They'll  turn  us  out,  and  no  one  else  will  take  us, 
But  why  can't  I  be  moral? — Let  me  try — 
My  heart  thus  pressing — fixed  my  face  and  eye — 
With  a  sententious  look,  that  nothing  means 
(Faces  are  blocks,  in  sentimental  scenes), 
Thus  I  begin — All  is  not  gold  that  glitters, 
Pleasure  seems  sweet,  but  proves  a  glass  of  bitters. 
When  ignorance  enters,  folly  is  at  hand; 
Learning  is  better  far  than  house  and  land. 
Let  not  your  virtue  trip,  who  trips  may  stumble, 
And  virtue  is  not  virtue,  if  she  tumble. 
I  give  it  up — morals  won't  do  for  me; 
To  make  you  laugh  I  must  play  tragedy. 
One  hope  remains — hearing  the  maid  was  ill, 
A  doctor  comes  this  night  to  show  his  skill. 
To  cheer  her  heart,  and  give  your  muscles  motion, 
He  in  five  draughts  prepared,  presents  a  potion : 
A  kind  of  magic  charm — for  be  assured, 
If  you  will  swallow  it,  the  maid  is  cured. 

324 


SHE  STOOPS  TO  CONQUER 


ACT  I,  So.  I. 


But  desperate  the  Doctor,  and  her  case  is, 
If  you  reject  the  dose,  and  make  wry  faces! 
This  truth  he  boasts,  will  boast  it  while  he  lives, 
No  poisonous  drugs  are  mixed  in  what  he  gives ; 
Should  he  succeed,  you'll  give  him  his  degree ; 
If  not,  within  he  will  receive  no  fee! 
The  college  you,  must  his  pretentions  back, 
Pronounce  him  regular,  or  dub  him  quack. 


DRAMATIS  PERSONS 


MEN 

SIR   CHARLES  MARLOW. 

YOUNG  MARLOW   (His  SON). 

HARDCASTLE. 

HASTINGS. 

TONY    LUMPKIN. 

DIGGORY. 


WOMEN 


MRS.   HARDCASTLE. 
Miss   HARDCASTLE. 
Miss   NEVILLE. 
MAID. 

Landlords,    Servants,    &c.,    &c. 


ACT  I 

SCENE    I 

A    CHAMBER    IN    AN    OLD-FASHIONED    HOUSE. 
Enter  MRS.   HARDCASTLE  and  MR.  HARDCASTLE. 

Mrs.  Hard.  I  vow,  Mr.  Hardcastle,  you're 
very  particular.  Is  there  a  creature  in  the 
whole  country,  but  ourselves,  that  does  not 
take  a  trip  to  town  now  and  then,  to  rub 
off  the  rust  a  little?  There's  the  two  Miss 
Hoggs,  and  our  neighbor,  Mrs.  Grigsby,  go 
to  take  a  month's  polishing  every  winter. 

Hard.  Ay,  and  bring  back  vanity  and  af- 
fectation to  last  them  the  whole  year.  I 
wonder  why  London  cannot  keep  its  own 
fools  at  home.  In  my  time,  the  follies  of 
the  town  crept  slowly  among  us,  but  now 
they  travel  faster  than  a  stage-coach.  Its 
fopperies  come  down,  not  only  as  inside  pas- 
sengers, but  in  the  very  basket. 

Mrs.  Hard.  Ay,  your  times  were  fine 
times,  indeed;  you  have  been  telling  us  of 
them  for  many  a  long  year.  Here  we  live  in 
an  old  rumbling  mansion,  that  looks  for  all 
the  world  like  an  inn,  but  that  we  never 
see  company.  Our  best  visitors  are  old  Mrs. 
Oddfish,  the  curate's  wife,  and  little  Cripple- 
gate,  the  lame  dancing-master:  and  all  our 
entertainment  your  old  stories  of  Prince 
Eugene  and  the  Duke  of  Marlborough.  I 
hate  such  old-fashioned  trumpery. 

Hard.  And  I  love  it.  I  love  everything 
that's  old:  old  friends,  old  times,  old  man- 
ners, old  books,  old  wine;  and,  I  believe, 


Dorothy  [taking  her  hand],  you'll  own  I  have 
been  pretty  fond  of  on  old  wife. 

Mrs.  Hard.  Lord,  Mr.  Hardcastle,  you're 
for  ever  at  your  Dorothy's  and  your  old 
wife's.  You  may  be  a  Darby,  but  I'll  be  no 
Joan,  I  promise  you.  I'm  not  so  old  as 
you'd  make  me,  by  more  than  one  good  year. 
Add  twenty  to  twenty,  and  make  money  of 
that. 

Hard.  Let  me  see;  twenty  added  to 
twenty,  makes  just  fifty  and  seven! 

Mrs.  Hard.  It's  false,  Mr.  Hardcastle:  I 
was  but  twenty  when  I  was  brought  to  bed 
of  Tony,  that  I  had  by  Mr.  Lumpkin,  my 
first  husband;  and  he's  not  come  to  years 
of  discretion  yet. 

Hard.  Nor  ever  will,  I  dare  answer  for 
him.  Ay,  you  have  taught  him  finely! 

Mrs.  Hard.  No  matter,  Tony  Lumpkin  has 
a  good  fortune.  My  son  is  not  to  live  by 
his  learning.  I  don't  think  a  boy  wants  much 
learning  to  spend  fifteen  hundred  a  year. 

Hard.  Learning,  quotha!  A  mere  com- 
position of  tricks  and  mischief! 

Mrs.  Hard.  Humor,  my  dear:  nothing  but 
humor.  Come,  Mr.  Hardcastle,  you  must 
allow  the  boy  a  little  humor. 

Hard.  I'd  sooner  allow  him  a  horse-pond! 
If  burning  the  footmen's  shoes,  frighting  the 
maids,  and  worrying  the  kittens,  be  humor, 
he  has  it.  It  was  but  yesterday  he  fastened 
my  wip  to  the  back  of  my  chair,  and  when 
I  went  to  make  a  bow,  I  popped  my  bald 
head  in  Mrs.  Frizzle's  face ! 

Mrs.  Hard.  And  am  I  to  blame?  The 
poor  boy  was  always  too  sickly  to  do  any 


325 


ACT  I,  Sc.  I. 


SHE  STOOPS  TO  CONQUER 


good.  A  school  would  be  his  death.  When 
he  comes  to  be  a  little  stronger,  who  knows 
what  a  year  or  two's  Latin  may  do  for  him? 

Hard.  Latin  for  him !  A  cat  and  fiddle ! 
No,  no,  the  ale-house  and  the  stable  are 
the  only  schools  he'll  ever  go  to! 

Mrs.  Hard.  Well,  we  must  not  snub  the 
poor  boy  now,  for  I  believe  we  shan't  have 
him  long  among  us.  Anybody  that  looks  in 
his  face  may  see  he's  consumptive. 

Hard.  Ay,  if  growing  too  fat  be  one  of 
the  symptoms. 

Mrs.  Hard.     He  coughs  sometimes. 

Hard.  Yes,  when  his  liquor  goes  the 
wrong  way. 

Mrs.  Hard.  I'm  actually  afraid  of  his 
lungs. 

Hard.  And  truly,  so  am  I;  for  he  some- 
times whoops  like  a  speaking-trumpet— 
[TONY  hallooing  behind  the  scenes] — O,  there 
he  goes — A  very  consumptive  figure,  truly ! 

Enter   TONY,   crossing  the   stage. 

Mrs.  Hard.  Tony,  where  are  you  going, 
my  charmer?  Won't  you  give  papa  and  I  a 
little  of  your  company,  lovey? 

Tony.     I'm  in  haste,  mother,  I  cannot  stay. 

Mrs.  Hard.  You  shan't  venture  out  this 
raw  evening,  my  dear:  you  look  most  shock- 
ingly. 

Tony.  I  can't  stay,  I  tell  you.  The  Three 
Pigeons  expects  me  down  every  moment. 
There's  some  fun  going  forward. 

Hard.  Ay;  the  ale-house,  the  old  place: 
I  thought  so. 

Mrs.    Hard.     A   low,   paltry   set   of   fellows. 

Tony.  Not  so  low,  neither.  There's  Dick 
Muggins  the  exciseman,  Jack  Slang  the  horse 
doctor,  Little  Aminadab  that  grinds  the 
music  box,  and  Tom  Twist  that  spins  the 
pewter  platter. 

Mrs.  Hard.  Pray,  my  dear,  disappoint 
them  for  one  night,  at  least. 

Tony.  As  for  disappointing  them,  I  should 
not  so  much  mind;  but  I  can't  abide  to  dis- 
appoint myself! 

Mrs.  Hard.  [Detaining  him].  You  shan't 
go. 

Tony.     1  will,  I  tell  you. 

Mrs.  Hard.     I  say  you  shan't. 

Tony.  We'll  see  which  is  strongest,  you  or 
I.  [Exit  hauling  her  out. 

HARDCASTLE    solus. 

Hard.  Ay,  there  goes  a  pair  that  only 
spoil  each  other.  But  is  not  the  whole  age 
in  a  combination  to  drive  sense  and  discre- 
tion out  of  doors?  There's  my  pretty  dar- 
ling, Kate;  the  fashions  of  the  times  have 
almost  infected  her  too.  By  living  a  year 
or  two  in  town,  she  is  as  fond  of  gauze  and 
French  frippery  as  the  best  of  them. 


Hard.  Blessings  on  my  pretty  innocence! 
Dressed  out  as  usuai,  my  Kate!  Goodness! 
What  a  quantity  of  superfluous  silk  hast 
thou  got  about  thee,  girl !  I  could  never 
teach  the  fools  of  this  age,  that  the  in- 
digent world  could  be  clothed  out  of  the 
trimmings  of  the  vain. 

Miss  Hard.  You  know  our  agreement,  sir. 
You  allow  me  the  morning  to  receive  and 
pay  visits,  and  to  dress  in  my  own  manner; 
and  in  the  evening,  I  put  on  my  housewife's 
dress,  to  please  you. 

Hard.  Well,  remember,  I  insist  on  the 
terms  of  our  agreement;  and,  by-the-bye,  I 
believe  I  shall  have  occasion  to  try  your 
obedience  this  very  evening. 

Miss  Hard.  I  protect,  sir,  I  don't  com- 
prehend your  meaning. 

Hard.  Then,  to  be  plain  with  you,  Kate, 
I  expect  the  young  gentleman  I  have  chosen 
to  be  your  husband  from  town  this  very 
day.  I  have  his  father's  letter,  in  which  he 
informs  me  his  son  is  set  out,  and  that  he 
intends  to  follow  himself  shortly  after. 

Miss  Hard.  Indeed!  I  wish  I  had  known 
something  of  this  before.  Bless  me,  how 
shall  I  behave?  It's  a  thousand  to  one  I 
shan't  like  him;  our  meeting  will  be  so 
formal,  and  so  like  a  thing  of  business,  that 
I  shall  find  no  room  for  friendship  or  esteem. 

Hard.  Depend  upon  it,  child,  I'll  never 
control  your  choice;  but  Mr.  Marlow,  whom 
I  have  pitched  upon,  is  the  son  of  my  old 
friend,  Sir  Charles  Marlow,  of  whom  you 
have  heard  me  talk  so  often.  The  young 
gentleman  has  been  bred  a  scholar,  and  is 
designed  for  an  employment  in  the  service 
of  his  country.  I  am  told  he's  a  man  of  an 
excellent  understanding. 

Miss  Hard.     Is  he? 

Hard.     Very  generous. 

Miss  Hard.     I  believe  I  shall  like  him. 

Hard.     Young    and    brave. 

Miss  Hard.     I  am  sure  I  shall  like  him. 

Hard.     And   very    handsome. 

Miss  Hard.  My  dear  papa,  say  no  more 
[kissing  his  hand],  he's  mine,  I'll  have  him! 

Hard.  And,  to  crown  all,  Kate,  he's  one 
of  the  most  bashful  and  reserved  young  fel- 
lows in  all  the  world. 

Miss  Hard.  Eh!  you  have  frozen  me  to 
death  again.  That  word  reserved  has  un- 
done all  the  rest  of  his  accomplishments.  A 
reserved  lover,  it  is  said,  always  makes 
a  suspicious  husband. 

Hard.  On  the  contrary,  modesty  seldom 
resides  in  a  breast  that  is  not  enriched  with 
nobler  virtues.  It  was  the  very  feature  in 
his  character  that  first  struck  me. 

Miss  Hard.  He  must  have  more  striking 
features  to  catch  me,  I  promise  you.  How- 
ever, if  he  be  so  young,  so  handsome,  and 'so 


320 


SHE  STOOPS  TO  CONQUER 


ACT  I,  Sc.  II. 


everything,  as  you  mention,  I  believe  he'll 
do  still.  I  think  I'll  have  him. 

Hard.  Ay,  Kate,  but  there  is  still  an 
obstacle.  It  is  more  than  an  even  wager, 
he  may  not  have  you. 

Miss  Hard.  My  dear  papa,  why  will  you 
mortify  one  so? — Well,  if  he  refuses,  instead 
of  breaking  my  heart  at  his  indifference,  I'll 
only  break  my  glass  for  its  flattery.  Set  my 
cap  to  some  newer  fashion,  and  look  out  for 
some  less  difficult  admirer. 

Hard.  Bravely  resolved!  In  the  mean- 
time I'll  go  prepare  the  servants  for  his  re- 
ception; as  we  seldom  see  company,  they 
want  as  much  training  as  a  company  of 
recruits  the  first  day's  muster.  {Exit. 

Miss  HARDCASTLE  sola. 

Miss  Hard.  Lud,  this  news  of  papa's  puts 
me  all  in  a  flutter.  Young,  handsome;  these 
he  put  last;  but  I  put  them  foremost. 
Sensible,  good-natured;  I  like  all  that.  But 
then  reserved,  and  sheepish,  that's  much 
against  him.  Yet  can't  he  be  cured  of  his 
timidity,  by  being  taught  to  be  proud  of  his 
wife?  Yes,  and  can't  I— but  I  vow  I'm  dis- 
posing of  the  husband  before  I  have  secured 
the  lover! 

Enter  Miss   NEVILLE. 

Miss  Hard.  I'm  glad  you're  come,  Neville, 
my  dear.  Tell  me,  Constance,  how  do  I  look 
this  evening?  Is  there  anything  whimsical 
about  me?  Is  it  one  of  my  well-looking 
days,  child?  Am  I  in  face  to-day? 

Miss  Neville.  Perfectly,  my  dear.  Yet, 
now  I  look  again— bless  me!— sure  no  acci- 
dent has  happened  among  the  canary  birds 
or  the  goldfishes?  Has  your  brother  or  the 
cat  been  meddling?  Or  has  the  last  novel 
been  too  moving? 

Miss    Hard.     No;    nothing    of    all    this, 
have  been  threatened— I  can  scarce  get  it  out 
—I    have   been  threatened   with  a  lover! 

Miss   Neville.     And   his   name 

Miss  Hard.     Is  Marlow. 

Miss  Neville.     Indeed! 

Miss  Hard.  The  son  of  Sir  Charles  Mar- 
low. 

Miss  Neville.  As  I  live,  the  most  inti- 
mate friend  of  Mr.  Hastings,  my  admirer. 
They  are  never  asunder.  I  believe  you  must 
have  seen  him  when  we  lived  in  town. 

Miss   Hard.     Never. 

Miss  Neville.  He's  a  very  singular  char- 
acter, I  assure  you.  Among  women  of  repu- 
tation and  virtue,  he  is  the  modestest  man 
alive;  but  his  acquaintance  give  him  a  very 
different  character  among  creatures  of  an- 
other stamp:  you  understand  me? 

Miss  Hard.  An  odd  character,  indeed!  I 
•hall  never  be  able  to  manage  him.  What 
shall  I  do?  Pshaw,  think  no  more  of  him, 


but  trust  to  occurrences  for  success.  But 
how  goes  on  your  own  affair,  my  dear?  Has 
my  mother  been  courting  you  for  my  brother 
Tony,  as  usual? 

.Ui'.i-.v  Neville.  I  have  just  come  from  one 
of  our  agreeable  tete-a-tetes.  She  has  been 
saying  a  hundred  tender  things,  and  setting 
off  her  pretty  monster  as  the  very  pink  of 
perfection. 

Miss  Hard.  And  her  partiality  is  such, 
that  she  actually  thinks  him  so.  A  fortune 
like  yours  is  no  small  temptation.  Besides, 
as  she  has  the  sole  management  of  it,  I'm 
not  surprised  to  see  her  unwilling  to  let  it 
go  out  of  the  family. 

Miss  Neville.  ,  A  fortune  like  mine,  which 
chiefly  consists  in  jewels,  is  no  such  mighty 
temptation.  But,  at  any  rate,  if  my  dear 
Hastings  be  but  constant,  I  make  no  doubt 
to  be  too  hard  for  her  at  last.  However,  I 
let  her  suppose  that  I  am  in  love  with  her 
son,  and  she  never  once  dreams  that  my 
affections  are  fixed  upon  another. 

Miss  Hard.  My  good  brother  holds  out 
stoutly.  I  could  almost  love  him  for  hating 
you  so. 

Miss  Neville.  It  is  a  good-natured  creature 
at  bottom,  and  I'm  sure  would  wish  to  see 
me  married  to  anybody  but  himself.  But  my 
aunt's  bell  rings  for  our  afternoon's  walk 
round  the  improvements.  Allans.  Courage 
is  necessary,  as  our  affairs  are  critical. 

Miss  Hard.  Would  it  were  bed-time  and 
all  were  well.  [Exeunt. 

SCENE    II 
AN  ALE-HOUSE  ROOM. 

Several  shabby  fellows,  with  punch  and  to- 
bacco. TONY  at  the  head  of  the  table,  a 
little  higher  than  the  rest:  a  mallet  in 
his  hand. 

O nines.     Hurrea,   hurrea,  hurrea,   bravo! 

First  Fellow.  Now,  gentlemen,  silence  for 
a  song.  The  'Squire  is  going  to  knock  him- 
self down  for  a  song. 

Omnes.     Ay,  a  song,  a  song. 

Tony.  Then  I'll  sing  you,  gentlemen,  a 
song  I  made  upon  this  ale-house,  the  Three 
Pigeons. 

SONG. 
Let  school-masters  puzzle  their  brain. 

With  grammar,  and  nonsense,  and  learning; 
Good  liquor,  I  stoutly  maintain, 

Gives    genus   a   better   discerning, 
Let  them  brag  of  their  Heathenish  Gods, 

Their  Lethes,  their  Styxes,  and  Stygians; 
Their  Quis,  and  their  Quaes,  and  their  Quods, 

They're  all  but  a  parcel  of  pigeons. 

Toroddle,    toroddle,    toroll ! 

When    Methodist   preachers   come   down, 
A-preaching  that  drinking  is  sinful, 


327 


ACT  I,  Sc.  II. 


SHE  STOOPS  TO  CONQUER 


I'll  wager  the  rascals  a  crown, 
They  always  preach  best  with  a  skinful. 

But   when  you   come   down   with  your  pence, 
For  a  slice  of  their  scurvy  religion, 

I'll  leave  it  to  all  men  of  sense, 
But  you,  my  good  friend,  are  the  pigeon. 
Toroddle,    toroddle,    toroll! 

Then  come,  put  the  jorum  about, 

And  let  us  be  merry  and   clever, 
Our  hearts  and  our  liquors  are  stout, 

Here's  the  Three  Jolly   Pigeons  for  ever. 
Let  some  cry  up  woodcock  or  hare, 

Your     bustards,     your     ducks,     and     your 

widgeons; 
But  of  all  the  birds  in  the  air, 

Here's  a  health  to  the  Three  Jolly  Pigeons. 
Toroddle,    toroddle,   toroll! 

O nines.     Bravo,   bravo ! 

First  Fellow.  The  'Squire  has  got  spunk 
in  him. 

Second  Fellow.  I  loves  to  hear  him  sing, 
bekeays  he  never  gives  us  nothing  that's 
low. 

Third  Fellow.  O  damn  anything  that's  low, 
I  cannot  bear  it! 

Fourth  Fellow.  The  genteel  thing  is  the 
genteel  thing  at  any  time.  If  so  be  that  a 
gentleman  bees  in  a  concatenation  accord- 
ingly. 

Third  Fellow.  I  like  the  maxum  of  it, 
Master  Muggins.  What,  though  I  am  obli- 
gated to  dance  a  bear,  a  man  may  be  a 
gentleman  for  all  that.  May  this  be  my 
poison  if  my  bear  ever  dances  but  to  the 
very  genteelest  of  tunes.  Water  Parted,  or 
the  minuet  in  Ariadne. 

Second  Fellow.  What  a  pity  it  is  the 
'Squire  is  not  come  to  his  own.  It  would 
be  well  for  all  the  publicans  within  ten 
miles  round  of  him. 

Tony.     Ecod,     and 


so     it     would,     Master 


Slang.  I'd  then  show  what  it  was  to  keep 
choice  of  company. 

Second  Fellow.  O,  he  takes  after  his  own 
father  for  that.  To  be  sure,  old  'Squire 
Lumpkin  was  the  finest  gentleman  I  ever  set 
my  eyes  on.  For  winding  the  straight  horn, 
or  beating  a  thicket  for  a  hare,  or  a  wench, 
he  never  had  his-  fellow.  It  was  a  saying  in 
the  place,  that  he  kept  the  best  horses,  dogs, 
and  girls  in  the  whole  county. 

Tony.  Ecod,  and  when  I'm  of  age  I'll 
be  no  bastard,  I  promise  you.  I  have  been 
thinking  of  Bet  Bouncer  and  the  miller's 
grey  mare  to  begin  with.  But  come,  my 
boys,  drink  about  and  be  merry,  for  you  pay 


no     reckoning, 
matter? 


Well,     Stingo,     what's     the 


Enter  LANDLORD. 


Landlord.     There    be    two    gentlemen    in    a 
postchaise  at  the  door.    They  have  lost  their 


way  upo'  the  forest;  and  they  are  talking 
something  about  Mr.  Hardcastle. 

Tony.  As  sure  as  can  be,  one  of  them 
must  be  the  gentleman  that's  coming  down 
to  court  my  sister.  Do  they  seem  to  be 
Londoners  ? 

Landlord.  I  believe  they  may.  They  look 
woundily  like  Frenchmen. 

Tony.  Then  desire  them  to  step  this  way, 
and  I'll  set  them  right  in  a  twinkling.  [Exit 
LANDLORD.]  Gentlemen,  as  they  mayn't  be 
good  enough  company  for  you,  step  down 
for  a  moment,  and  I'll  be  with  you  in  the 


squeezing  of  a  lemon. 


[Exeunt  Mob. 


TONY    solus. 


Tony.  Father-in-law  has  been  calling  me 
whelp  and  hound,  this  half  year.  Now,  if  I 
pleased,  I  could  be  so  revenged  upon  the 
old  grumbletonian.  But  then  I'm  afraid — 
afraid  of  what?  I  shall  soon  be  worth  fifteen 
hundred  a  year,  and  let  him  frighten  me  out 
of  that  if  he  can! 


Enter     LANDLORD,     conducting 
HASTINGS. 


MARLOW     and 


Marlow.  What  a  tedious  uncomfortable 
day  have  we  had  of  it!  We  were  told  it 
was  but  forty  miles  across  the  country, 
and  we  have  come  above  threescore! 

Hastings.  And  all,  Marlow,  from  that  un- 
accountable reserve  of  yours,  that  would 
not  let  us  enquire  more  frequently  on  the 
way. 

Marlow.  I  own,  Hastings,  I  am  unwilling 
to  lay  myself  under  an  obligation  to  every 
one  I  meet;  and  often  stand  the  chance  of 
an  unmannerly  answer. 

Hastings.  At  present,  however,  we  are  not 
likely  to  receive  any  answer. 

Tony.  No  offence,  gentlemen.  But  I'm 
told  you  have  been  enquiring  for  one  Mr. 
Hardcastle,  in  these  parts.  Do  you  know 
what  part  of  the  country  you  are  in? 

Hastings.  Not  in  the  least,  sir,  but  should 
thank  you  for  information. 

Tony.     Nor    the   way    you    came? 

Hastings.  No,  sir,  but  if  you  can  inform 
us 

Tony.  Why,  gentlemen,  if  you  know 
neither  the  road  you  are  going,  nor  where 
you  are,  nor  the  road  you  came,  the  first 
thing  I  have  to  inform  you  is,  that — you 
have  lost  your  way. 

Marlow.  We  wanted  no  ghost  to  tell  us 
that. 

Tony.  Pray,  gentlemen,  may  I  be  so  bold 
as  to  ask  the  place  from  whence  you  came? 

Marlow.  That's  not  necessary  towards  di- 
recting us  where  we  are  to  go. 

Tony.  No  offence;  but  question  for  ques- 
tion is  all  fair,  you  know.  Pray,  gentlemen, 
is  not  this  same  Hardcastle  a  cross-grained, 


328 


SHE  STOOPS  TO  COXQUER 


ACT  II,  Sc.  I. 


old-fashioned,  whimsical  fellow  with  an  ugly 
face,  a  daughter,  and  a  pretty  son? 

Hastings.  We  have  not  seen  the  gentle- 
man, but  he  has  the  family  you  mention. 

Tony.  The  daughter,  a  tall,  trapesing, 

trolloping,  talkative  maypole The  son,  a 

pretty,  well-bred,  agreeable  youth,  that 
everybody  is  fond  of ! 

Marlow.  Our  information  differs  in  this. 
•  The  daughter  is  said  to  be  well-bred  and 
beautiful;  the  son,  an  awkward  booby,  reared 
up  and  spoiled  at  his  mother's  apron-string. 

Tony.  He-he-hem — then,  gentlemen,  all  I 
have  to  tell  you  is,  that  you  won't  reach 
Mr.  Hardcastle's  house  this  night,  I  believe. 

Hastings.     Unfortunate! 

Tony.  It's  a  damned  long,  dark,  boggy, 
dirty,  dangerous  way.  Stingo,  tell  the  gen- 
tlemen the  way  to  Mr.  Hardcastle's.  [Wink- 
ing upon  the  LANDLORD.]  Mr.  Hardcastle's  of 
Quagmire  Marsh,  you  understand  me. 

Landlord.  Master  Hardcastle's!  Lack-a- 
daisy,  my  masters,  you're  come  a  deadly 
deal  wrong!  When  you  came  to  the  bot- 
tom of  the  hill,  you  should  have  crossed 
down  Squash  Lane. 

Marlow.     Cross    down    Squash    Lane! 

Landlord.  Then  you  were  to  keep  straight 
forward,  until  you  came  to  four  roads. 

Marlow.     Come  to  where  four  roads  meet ! 

Tony.  Ay,  but  you  must  be  sure  to  take 
only  one  of  them. 

Marlow.     O,  sir,   you're  facetious! 

Tony.  Then,  keeping  to  the  right,  you 
are  to  go  sideways  till  you  come  upon  Crack- 
skull  Common:  there  you  must  look  sharp  for 
the  track  of  the  wheel,  and  go  forward,  till 
you  come  to  Farmer  Murrain's  barn.  Com- 
ing to  the  farmer's  barn,  you  are  to  turn 
to  the  right,  and  then  to  the  left,  and 
then  to  the  right  about  again,  till  you  find 
out  the  old  mill 

Marlow.  Zounds,  man!  we  could  as  soon 
find  out  the  longitude! 

Hastings.     What's  to  be  done,  Marlow? 

Marlow.  This  house  promises  but  a  poor 
reception,  though,  perhaps,  the  landlord  can 
accommodate  us. 

Landlord.  Alack,  master,  we  have  but  one 
spare  bed  in  the  whole  house. 

Tony.  And  to  my  knowledge,  that's  taken 
up  by  three  lodgers  already.  [After  a  pause, 
in  which  the  rest  seem  disconcerted.]  I  have 
hit  it.  Don't  you  think,  Stingo,  our  land- 
lady could  accommodate  the  gentlemen  by 

the  fire-side,  with three  chairs  and  a 

bolster? 

Hastings.     I  hate  sleeping  by  the  fire-side. 

Marlow.  And  I  detest  your  three  chairs 
and  a  bolster. 

Tony.  You  do,  do  you?— then  let  me  see— 
what — if  you  go  on  a  mile  further,  to  the 


Buck's    Head;    the   old    Buck's    Head    on    the 
hill,  one  of  the  best  inns  in  the  whole  county  ? 


Hastings.  O  ho!  so  we  have  escaped  an 
adventure  for  this  night,  however. 

Landlord  [apart  to  TONY].  Sure,  you  ben't 
sending  them  to  your  father's  as  an  inn,  be 
you? 

Tony.  Mum,  you  fool,  you.  Let  them  find 
that  out.  VI  o  them.}  You  have  only  to  keep 
on  straight  forward,  till  you  come  to  a  large 
old  house  by  the  roadside.  You'll  see  a  pair 
of  large  horns  over  the  door.  That's  the 
sign.  Drive  up  the  yard,  and  call  stoutly 
about  you. 

Hastings.  Sir,  we  are  obliged  to  you.  The 
servants  can't  miss  the  way? 

Tony.     No, 
the   landlord   : 


no:     but    I    tell    you    though, 
rich,  and   going   to   leave   off 


business;  so  he  wants  to  be  thought  a  gen- 
tleman, saving  your  presence,  he !  he !  he ! 
He'll  be  for  giving  you  his  company,  and, 
ecod,  if  you  mind  him,  he'll  persuade  you 
that  his  mother  was  an  alderman,  and  his 
aunt  a  justice  of  peace! 

Landlord.  A  troublesome  old  blade,  to  be 
sure;  but  'a  keeps  as  good  wines  and  beds 
as  any  in  the  whole  country. 

Marlow.  Well,  if  he  supplies  us  with 
these,  -vc  shall  want  no  further  connection. 
We  are  to  turn  to  the  right,  did  you  say? 

Tony.  No,  no;  straight  forward.  I'll  just 
step  myself,  and  show  you  a  piece  of  the 
way.  [To  the  LANDLORD.]  Mum. 

Landlord.  Ah,  bless  your  heart,  for  a 
sweet,  pleasant — damned  mischievous  son  of 
a  whore.  [Exeunt. 

ACT  II 

SCENE  I 
AN    OLD-FASHIONED   HOUSE. 

Enter  HARDCASTLE,   followed  by  three   or  four 
awkward    Servants. 

Hardcastle.  Well,  I  hope  you're  perfect  in 
the  table  exercise  I  have  been  teaching  you 
these  three  days.  You  all  know  your  posts 
and  your  places,  and  can  show  that  you 
have  been  used  to  good  company,  without 
ever  stirring  from  home. 

Omnes.     Ay,  ay. 

Hard.  When  company  conies,  you  are  not 
to  pop  out  and  stare,  and  then  run  in  again, 
like  frighted  rabbits  in  a  warren. 

Omnes.     No,  no. 

Hard.  You,  Diggory,  whom  I  have  taken 
from  the  barn,  are  to  make  a  show  at  the 
side-table;  and  you,  Roger,  whom  I  have 
advanced  from  the  plough,  are  to  place  your- 
self behind  my  chair.  But  you're  not  to 
stand  so,  with  your  hands  in  your  pockets. 
Take  your  hands  from  your  pockets,  Roger; 
and  from  your  head,  you  blockhead,  you. 
See  how  Diggory  carries  his  hands.  They're 
a  little  too  stiff,  indeed,  but  that's  no  great 
matter. 


329 


ACT  II,  Sc.  I. 


SHE  STOOPS  TO  CONQUER 


Diggory.  Ay,  mind  how  1  hold  them.  I 
learned  to  hold  my  hands  this  way,  when  I 
was  upon  drill  for  the  militia.  And  so 
being  upon  drill 

Hard.  You  must  not  be  so  talkative,  Dig- 
gory.  You  must  be  all  attention  to  the 
guests.  You  must  hear  us  talk,  and  not 
think  of  talking;  you  must  see  us  drink,  and 
not  think  of  drinking;  you  must  see  us  eat, 
and  not  think  of  eating. 

Diggory.  By  the  laws,  your  worship,  that's 
parfectly  impossible.  Whenever  Diggory 
sees  yeating  going  forward,  ecod,  he's  al- 
ways wishing  for  a  mouthful  himself. 

Hard.  Blockhead!  Is  not  a  bellyful  in 
the  kitchen  as  good  as  a  bellyful  in  the 
parlor?  Stay  your  stomach  with  that  re- 
flection. 

Diggory.  Ecod,  I  thank  your  worship,  I'll 
make  a  shift  to  stay  my  stomach  with  a 
slice  of  cold  beef  in  the  pantry. 

Hard.  Diggory,  you  are  too  talkative. 
Then,  if  I  happen  to  say  a  good  thing,  or 
tell  a  good  story  at  table,  you  must  not 
all  burst  out  a-laughing,  as  if  you  made 
part  of  the  company. 

Diggory.  Then,  ecod,  your  worship  must 
not  tell  the  story  of  Ould  Grouse  in  the  gun- 
room: I  can't  help  laughing  at  that — he! 
he!  he! — for  the  soul  of  me!  We  have 
laughed  at  that  these  twenty  years — ha!  ha! 
ha! 

Hard.  Ha!  ha!  ha!  The  story  is  a  good 
one.  Well,  honest  Diggory,  you  may  laugh 
at  that — but  still  remember  to  be  attentive. 
Suppose  one  of  the  company  should  call  for 
a  glass  of  wine,  how  will  you  behave?  A 
glass  of  wine,  sir,  if  you  please  [to  DIGGORY] 
— Eh,  why  don't  you  move? 

Diggory.  Ecod,  your  worship,  I  never 
have  courage  till  I  see  the  eatables  and 
drinkables  brought  upo'  the  table,  and  then 
I'm  as  bauld  as  a  lion. 

Hard.     What,  will  nobody  move? 

First  Sen-ant.    I'm  not  to  leave  this  pleace. 

Second  Servant,  I'm  sure  it's  no  pleace  of 
mine. 

Third  Servant.     Nor  mine,  for  sartain. 

Diggory.  Wauns,  and  I'm  sure  it  canna 
be  mine. 

Hard.  You  numskulls!  and  so  while,  like 
your  betters,  you  are  quarrelling  for  places, 
the  guests  must  be  starved.  O,  you  dunces! 
I  find  I  must  begin  all  over  again. — But 
don't  I  hear  a  coach  drive  into  the  yard? 
To  your  posts,  you  blockheads!  I'll  go  in 
the  meantime  and  give  my  old  friend's  son 
a  hearty  reception  at  the  gate. 

[Exit  HARDCASTLE. 

Diggory.  By  the  elevens,  my  pleace  is 
gone  quite  out  of  my  head. 

Roger.  I  know  that  my  pleace  is  to  be 
everywhere ! 

First   Servant.     Where   the   devil   is   mine? 


Second  Servant.  My  pleace  is  to  be  no- 
where at  all;  and  so  I'ze  go  about  my  busi- 
ness! 

[Exeunt   Servants,    running    about    as  if 
frighted,    different   ways. 

Enter  Servant  with   candles,  showing  in  MAR- 
LOW   and  HASTINGS. 

Servant.  Welcome,  gentlemen,  very  wel- 
come. This  way. 

Hastings.  After  the  disappointments  of  the 
day,  welcome  once  more,  Charles,  to  the 
comforts  of  a  clean  room  and  a  good  fire. 
Upon  my  word,  a  very  well-looking  house; 
antique  but  creditable. 

Marlow.  The  usual  fate  of  a  large  man- 
sion. Having  first  ruined  the  master  by 
good  housekeeping,  it  at  last  comes  to  levy 
contributions  as  an  inn. 

Hastings.  As  you  say,  we  passengers  are 
to  be  taxed  to  pay  all  these  fineries.  I  have 
often  seen  a  good  sideboard,  or  a  marble 
chimney-piece,  though  not  actually  put  in 
the  bill,  inflame  a  reckoning  confoundedly. 

Marlow.  Travellers,  George,  must  pay  in 
all  places.  The  only  difference  is,  that  in 
good  inns,  you  pay  dearly  for  luxuries;  in 
bad  inns,  you  are  fleeced  and  starved. 

Hastings.  You  have  lived  pretty  much 
among  them.  In  truth,  I  have  been  often 
surprised,  that  you  who  have  seen  so  much 
of  the  world,  with  your  natural  good  sense, 
and  your  many  opportunities,  could  never 
yet  acquire  a  requisite  share  of  assurance. 

Marlow.  The  Englishman's  malady.  But 
tell  me,  George,  where  could  I  have  learned 
that  assurance  you  talk  of?  My  life  has 
been  chiefly  spent  in  a  college,  or  an  inn, 
in  seclusion  from  that  lovely  part  of  the 
creation  that  chiefly  teach  men  confidence. 
I  don't  know  that  I  was  ever  familiarly  ac- 
quainted with  a  single  modest  woman — ex- 
cept my  mother — But  among  females  of  an- 
other class,  you  know 

Hastings.  Ay,  among  them  you  are  im- 
pudent enough  of  all  conscience! 

Marlow.     They   are   of   «*,    you    know. 

Hastings.  But  in  the  company  of  women 
of  reputation  I  never  saw  such  an  idiot,  such 
a  trembler;  you  look  for  all  the  world  as 
if  you  wanted  an  opportunity  of  stealing 
out  of  the  room. 

Marlow.  Why,  man,  that's  because  I  do 
want  to  steal  out  of  the  room.  Faith,  I 
have  often  formed  a  resolution  to  break 
the  ice,  and  rattle  away  at  any  rate.  But  I 
don't  know  how,  a  single  glance  from  a  pair  of 
fine  eyes  has  totally  overset  my  resolution. 
An  impudent  fellow  may  counterfeit  modesty, 
but  I'll  be  hanged  if  a  modest  man  can  ever 
counterfeit  impudence. 

Hastings.  If  you  could  but  say  half  the 
fine  things  to  them  that  I  have  heard  you 


330 


SHE  STOOPS  TO  CONQUER 


ACT  II,  Sc.  I. 


lavish   upon   the  barmaid  of  an  inn,  or   even 
a  college  bedmaker 

Marlow.  Why,  George,  I  can't  say  fine 
things  to  them.  They  freeze,  they  petrify 
me.  They  may  talk  of  a  comet,  or  a  burn- 
ing mountain,  or  some  such  bagatelle.  But 
to  me,  a  modest  woman,  dressed  out  in  all 
her  finery,  is  the  most  tremendous  object  of 
the  whole  creation. 

Hastings.  Ha!  ha!  ha!  At  this  rate,  man, 
how  can  you  ever  expect  to  marry! 

Marlow.  Never,  unless,  as  among  kings 
and  princes,  my  bride  were  to  be  courted  by 
proxy.  If,  indeed,  like  an  Eastern  bride- 
groom, one  were  to  be  introduced  to  a  wife 
he  never  saw  before,  it  might  be  endured. 
But  to  go  through  all  the  terrors  of  a 
formal  courtship,  together  with  the  episode 
of  aunts,  grandmothers  and  cousins,  and  at 
last  to  blurt  out  the  broad  staring  question 
of,  madam,  wijl  you  marry  me?  No,  no,  that's 
a  strain  much  above  me,  I  assure  you! 

Hastings.  I  pity  you.  But  how  do  you 
intend  behaving  to  the  lady  you  are  come 
down  to  visit  at  the  request  of  your  father? 

Marlow.  As  I  behave  to  all  other  ladies. 
Bow  very  low.  Answer  yes,  or  no,  to  all  her 
demands— But  for  the  rest,  I  don't  think  I 
shall  venture  to  look  in  her  face,  till  I  see 
my  father's  again. 

Hastings.  I'm  surprised  that  one  who  is  so 
warm  a  friend  can  be  so  cool  a  lover. 

Marlow.  To  be  explicit,  my  dear  Hastings, 
my  chief  inducement  down  was  to  be  in- 
strumental in  forwarding  your  happiness,  not 
my  own.  Miss  Neville  loves  you,  the  family 
don't  know  you,  as  my  friend  you  are  sure 
of  a  reception,  and  let  honor  do  the  rest. 

Hastings.  My  dear  Marlow!  But  I'll  sup- 
press the  emotion.  Were  I  a  wretch,  meanly 
seeking  to  carry  off  a  fortune,  you  should 
be  the  last  man  in  the  world  I  would  apply 
to  for  assistance.  But  Miss  Neville's  person 
is  all  I  ask,  and  that  is  mine,  both  from  her 
deceased  father's  consent,  and  her  own  in- 
clination. 

Marlow.  Happy  man!  You  have  talents 
and  art  to  captivate  any  woman.  I'm  doomed 
to  adore  the  sex,  and  yet  to  converse  with 
the  only  part  of  it  I  despise.  This  stammer 
in  my  address,  and  this  awkward  unprepos- 
sessing visage  of  mine,  can  never  permit  me 
to  soar  above  the  reach  of  a  milliner's  ap- 
prentice, or  one  of  the  duchesses  of  Drury 
Lane.  Pshaw!  this  fellow  here  to  interrupt 
us. 

Enter  HARDCASTLE. 

Hard.  Gentlemen,  once  more  you  are 
heartily  welcome.  Which  is  Mr.  Marlow? 
Sir,  you're  heartily  welcome.  It's  not  my 
way,  you  see,  to  receive  my  friends  with  my 
back  to  the  fire.  I  like  to  give  them  a 
hearty  reception  in  the  old  style  at  my  gate. 


I  like  to  see  their  horses  and  trunks  taken 
care  of. 

Marlow  [aside].  He  has  got  our  names 
from  the  servants  already.  [To  him.']  We 
approve  your  caution  and  hospitality,  sir. 
[To  HASTINGS.]  I  have  been  thinking, 
George,  of  changing  our  travelling  dresses 
in  the  morning.  I  am  grown  confoundedly 
ashamed  of  mine. 

Hard.  I  beg,  Mr.  Marlow,  you'll  use  no 
ceremony  in  this  house. 

Hastings.  I  fancy,  George,  you're  right: 
the  first  blow  is  half  the  battle.  I  intend 
opening  the  campaign  with  the  white  and 
gold. 

Hard.  Mr.  Marlow— Mr.  Hastings— gentle- 
men— pray  be  under  no  constraint  in  this 
house.  This  is  Liberty  Hall,  gentlemen. 
You  may  do  just  as  you  please  here. 

Marlow.  Yet,  George,  if  we  open  the  cam- 
paign too  fiercely  at  first,  we  may  want 
ammunition  before  it  is  over.  I  think  to 
reserve  the  embroidery  to  secure  a  re- 
treat. 

Hard.  Your  talking  of  a  retreat,  Mr.  Mar- 
low,  puts  me  in  mind  of  the  Duke  of  Marl- 
borough,  when  we  went  to  besiege  Denain. 
He  first  summoned  the  garrison 

Marlow.  Don't  you  think  the  centre  d'or 
waistcoat  will  do  with  the  plain  brown  ? 

Hard.  He  first  summoned  the  garrison, 
which  might  consist  of  about  five  thousand 
men 

Hastings.  I  think  not:  brown  and  yellow 
mix  but  very  poorly. 

Hard.  I  say,  gentlemen,  as  I  was  telling 
you,  he  summoned  the  garrison,  which  might 
consist  of  about  five  thousand  men 

Marlow.     The  girls  like  finery. 

Hard.  Which  might  consist  of  about  five 
thousand  men,  well  appointed  with  stores, 
ammunition,  and  other  implements  of  war. 
"  Now,"  says  the  Duke  of  Marlborough  to 
George  Brooks,  that  stood  next  to  him — 
you  must  have  heard  of  George  Brooks;  "  I'll 
pawn  my  dukedom,"  says  he,  "  but  I  take 
that  garrison  without  spilling  a  drop  of 
blood!"  So 

Marlow.  What,  my  good  friend,  if  you 
gave  us  a  glass  of  punch  in  the  meantime, 
it  would  help  us  to  carry  on  the  siege  with 
vigor. 

Hard.  Punch,  sir!—  [Aside.]  This  is  the 
most  unaccountable  kind  of  modesty  I  ever 
met  with! 

Marlow.  Yes,  sir,  punch!  A  glass  of 
warm  punch,  after  our  journey,  will  be  com- 
fortable. This  is  Liberty  Hall,  you  know. 

Hard.     Here's    cup,    sir. 

Marlow  [aside].  So  this  fellow,  in  his  Lib- 
erty Hall,  will  only  let  us  have  just  what 
he  pleases. 

Hard.  [Taking  the  cup].  I  hope  you'll  find 
it  to  your  mind.  I  have  prepared  it  with  my 


331 


ACT  II,  Sc.  I. 


SHE  STOOPS  TO  CONQUER 


own  hands,  and  I  believe  you'll  own  the 
ingredients  are  tolerable.  Will  you  be  so 
good  as  to  pledge  me,  sir  ?  Here,  Mr.  Mar- 
low,  here  is  our  better  acquaintance! 

[Drinks. 

Mar  low  [aside],  A  very  impudent  fellow 
this!  but  he's  a  character,  and  I'll  humor 
him  a  little.  Sir,  my  service  to  you. 

[Drinks. 

Hastings  [aside],  I  see  this  fellow  wants 
to  give  us  his  company,  and  forgets  that  he's 
an  innkeeper,  before  he  has  learned  to  be  a 
gentleman. 

Marlow.  From  the  excellence  of  your  cup, 
my  old  friend,  I  suppose  you  have  a  good 
deal  of  business  in  this  part  of  the  country. 
Warm  work,  now  and  then,  at  elections,  I 
suppose  ? 

Hard.  No,  sir,  I  have  long  given  that 
work  over.  Since  our  betters  have  hit  upon 
the  expedient  of  electing  each  other,  there's 
no  business  for  us  that  sell  ale. 

Hastings.  So,  then  you  have  no  turn  for 
politics,  I  find. 

Hard.  Not  in  the  least.  There  was  a  time, 
indeed,  I  fretted  myself  about  the  mistakes 
of  government,  like  other,  people;  but,  find- 
ing myself  every  day  grow  more  angry,  and 
the  government  growing  no  better,  I  left  it 
to  mend  itself.  Since  that,  I  no  more  trouble 
my  head  about  Heyder  Ally,  or  Ally  Cawn, 
than  about  Ally  Croaker.  Sir,  my  service  to 
you. 

Hastings.  So  that,  with  eating  above 
stairs,  and  drinking  below,  with  receiving 
your  friends  within,  and  amusing  them  with- 
out, you  lead  a  good  pleasant  bustling  life 
of  it. 

Hard.  I  do  stir  about  a  great  deal,  that's 
certain.  Half  the  differences  of  the  parish 
are  adjusted  in  this  very  parlor. 

Marlow  [After  drinking].  And  you  have  an 
argument  in  your  cup,  old  gentleman,  better 
than  any  in  Westminster  Hall. 

Hard.  Ay,  young  gentleman,  that,  and  a 
little  philosophy. 

Marlow  [aside].  Well,  this  is  the  first  time 
I  ever  heard  of  an  innkeeper's  philosophy. 

Hastings.  So  then,  like  an  experienced 
general,  you  attack  them  on  every  quarter. 
If  you  find  their  reason  manageable,  you  at- 
tack it  with  your  philosophy;  if  you  find 
they  have  no  reason,  you  attack  them  with 
this.  Here's  your  health,  my  philosopher. 

[Drinks. 

Hard.  Good,  very  good,  thank  you;  ha! 
ha!  Your  generalship  puts  me  in  mind  of 
Prince  Eugene,  when  he  fought  the  Turks  at 
the  battle  of  Belgrade.  You  shall  hear. 

Marlow.  Instead  of  the  battle  of  Belgrade, 
I  believe  it's  almost  time  to  talk  about  sup- 
per. What  has  your  philosophy  got  in  the 
house  for  supper? 

Hard,     For    supper,     sir! [Aside.]      Was 


ever  such  a  request  to  a  man  in  his  own 
house ! 

Marlow.  Yes,  sir,  supper,  sir;  I  begin  to 
feel  an  appetite.  I  shall  make  devilish  work 
to-night  in  the  larder,  I  promise  you. 

Hard,  [aside].  Such  a  brazen  dog  sure 
never  my  eyes  beheld.  [To  him.]  Why, 
really,  sir,  as  for  supper  I  can't  well  tell. 
My  Dorothy,  and  the  cook  maid,  settle  these 
things  between  them.  I  leave  these  kind 
of  things  entirely  to  them. 

Marlow.    You  do,  do  you? 

Hard.  Entirely.  By-the-bye,  I  believe 
they  are  in  actual  consultation  upon  what's 
for  supper  this  moment  in  the  kitchen. 

Marlow.  Then  I  beg  they'll  admit  me  as 
one  of  their  privy  council.  It's  a  way  I 
have  got.  When  I  travel,  I  always  choose 
to  regulate  my  own  supper.  Let  the  cook 
be  called.  No  offence,  I  hope,  sir. 

Hard.  O,  no,  sir,  none  in  the  least;  yet, 
I  don't  know  how:  our  Bridget,  the  cook 
maid,  is  not  very  communicative  upon  these 
occasions.  Should  we  send  for  her,  she 
might  scold  us  all  out  of  the  house. 

Hastings.  Let's  see  your  list  of  the  larder, 
then.  I  ask  it  as  a  favor.  I  always  match 
my  appetite  to  my  bill  of  fare. 

Marlow  [To  HARDCASTLE,  who  looks  at  them 
with  surprise].  Sir,  he's  very  right,  and  it's 
my  way,  too. 

Hard.  Sir,  you  have  a  right  to  command 
here.  Here,  Roger,  bring  us  the  bill  of 
fare  for  to-night's  supper.  I  believe  it's 
drawn  out.  Your  manner,  Mr.  Hastings,  puts 
me  in  mind  of  my  uncle,  Colonel  Wallop.  It 
was  a  saying  of  his,  that  no  man  was  sure 
of  his  supper  till  he  had  eaten  it. 

Hastings  [aside].  All  upon  the  high  ropes! 
His  uncle  a  colonel !  We  shall  soon  hear  of 
his  mother  being  a  justice  of  peace.  But 
let's  hear  the  bill  of  fare. 

Marlow  [Perusing].  What's  here?  For  the 
first  course;  for  the  second  course;  for  the 
dessert.  The  devil,  sir,  do  you  think  we  have 
brought  down  the  whole  Joiners'  Company. 
or  the  Corporation  of  Bedford,  to  eat  up 
such  a  supper?  Two  or  three  little  things, 
clean  and  comfortable,  will  do. 

Hastings.     But    let's    hear   it. 

Marlow  [Reading].  For  the  first  course  at 
the  top,  a  pig,  and  pruin  sauce. 

Hastings.     Damn   your   pig,    I    say! 

Marlow.  And  damn  your  pruin  sauce, 
say  I! 

Hard.  And  yet,  gentlemen,  to  men  that 
are  hungry,  pig,  with  pruin  sauce,  is  very 
good  eating. 

Marlow.  At  the  bottom,  a  calf's  tongue 
and  brains. 

Hastings.  Let  your  brains  be  knocked  out, 
my  good  sir;  I  don't  like  them. 

Marlow.  Or  you  may  clap  them  on  a 
plate  by  themselves,  I  do. 


332 


ACT  II,  Sc.  I. 


Hard,  [aside].  Their  impudence  confounds 
me.  [To  them.']  Gentlemen,  you  are  my 
guests,  make  what  alterations  you  please. 
Is  there  anything  else  you  wish  to  retrench 
or  alter,  gentlemen  ? 

Marlow.  Item.  A  pork  pie,  a  boiled  rabbit 
and  sausages,  a  florentine,  a  shaking  pud- 
ding, and  a  dish  of  tiff — taff — taffety  cream ! 

Hastings.  Confound  your  made  dishes,  I 
shall  be  as  much  at  a  loss  in  this  house  as 
at  a  green  and  yellow  dinner  at  the  French 
ambassador's  table.  I'm  for  plain  eating. 

Hard.  I'm  sorry,  gentlemen,  that  I  have 
nothing  you  like,  but  if  there  be  anything 
you  have  a  particular  fancy  to 

Marlow.  Why,  really,  sir,  your  bill  of 
fare  is  so  exquisite,  that  any  one  part  of  it 
is  full  as  good  as  another.  Send  us  what 
you  please.  So  much  for  supper.  And  now 
to  see  that  our  beds  are  aired,  and  properly 
taken  care  of. 

Hard.  1  entreat  you'll  leave  all  that  to 
me.  You  shall  not  stir  a  step. 

Marlow.  Leave  that  to  you!  I  protest, 
sir,  you  must  excuse  me,  I  always  look  to 
these  things  myself. 

Hard.  I  must  insist,  sir,  you'll  make  your- 
self easy  on  that  head. 

Marlow.  You  see  I'm  resolved  on  it. — 
[.-/.v/..'V.J  A  very  troublesome  fellow  this,  as 
ever  I  met  with. 

Hard.  Well,  sir,  I'm  resolved  at  least  to 
attend  you. — {.Aside.}  This  may  be  modern 
modesty,  but  I  never  say  anything  look  so 
like  old-fashioned  impudence. 

[Exeunt  MARLOW  and  HARDCASTLE. 

HASTINGS   solus. 

Hastings.  So  I  find  this  fellow's  civilities 
begin  to  grow  troublesome.  But  who  can  be 
angry  at  those  assiduities  which  are  meant 
to  please  him  ?  Ha !  what  do  I  see !  Miss 
Neville,  by  all  that's  happy! 

Enter  Miss  NEVILLE. 

Miss  Neville.  My  dear  Hastings!  To 
what  unexpected  good  fortune?  to  what  acci- 
dent am  I  to  ascribe  this  happy  meeting  ? 

Hastings.  Rather  let  me  ask  the  same 
question,  as  I  could  never  have  hoped  to 
meet  my  dearest  Constance  at  an  inn. 

Miss  Neville.  An  inn!  sure  you  mistake! 
my  aunt,  my  guardian,  lives  here.  What 
could  induce  you  to  think  this  house  an  inn? 

Hastings.  My  friend,  Mr.  Marlow,  with 
whom  I  came  down,  and  I,  have  been  sent 
here  as  to  an  inn,  I  assure  you.  A  young 
fellow  whom  we  accidentally  met  at  a  house 
hard  by  directed  us  thither. 

Miss  Neville.  Certainly  it  must  be  one  of 
my  hopeful  cousin's  tricks,  of  whom  you 
have  heard  me  talk  so  often,  ha!  ha!  ha!  ha! 

Hastings.     He  whom  your  aunt  intends  for 


you?  He  of  whom  I  have  such  just  appre- 
hensions ? 

Miss  Neville.  You  have  nothing  to  fear 
from  him,  I  assure  you.  You'd  adore  him 
if  you  knew  how  heartily  he  despises  me. 
My  aunt  knows  it  too,  and  has  undertaken 
to  court  me  for  him,  and  actually  begins  to 
think  she  has  made  a  conquest. 

Hastings.  Thou  dear  dissembler!  You 
must  know,  my  Constance,  I  have  just  seized 
this  happy  opportunity  of  my  friend's  visit 
here  to  get  admittance  into  the  family.  The 
horses  that  carried  us  down  are  now  fatigued 
with  their  journey,  but  they'll  soon  be  re- 
freshed; and  then,  if  my  dearest  girl  will 
trust  in  her  faithful  Hastings,  we  shall  soon 
be  landed  in  France,  where  even  among 
slaves  the  laws  of  marriage  are  respected. 

Miss  Neville.  I  have  often  told  you,  that 
though  ready  to  obey  you,  I  yet  should  leave 
my  little  fortune  behind  with  reluctance. 
The  greatest  part  of  it  was  left  me  by  my 
uncle,  the  India  Director,  and  chiefly  con- 
sists in  jewels.  I  have  been  for  some  time 
persuading  my  aunt  to  let  me  wear  them. 
I  fancy  I'm  very  near  succeeding.  The  in- 
stant they  are  put  into  my  possession  you 
shall  find  me  ready  to  make  them  and  my- 
self yours. 

Hastings.  Perish  the  baubles!  Your  per- 
son is  all  I  desire.  In  the  meantime,  my 
friend  Marlow  must  not  be  let  into  his  mis- 
take. I  know  the  strange  reserve  of  his 
temper  is  such,  that  if  abruptly  informed 
of  it,  he  would  instantly  quit  the  house  be- 
fore our  plan  was  ripe  for  execution. 

Miss  Neville.  But  how  shall  we  keep  him 
in  the  deception?  Miss  Hardcastle  is  just 
returned  from  walking;  what  if  we  still  con- 
tinue to  deceive  him? — This,  this  way 

[They  confer. 

Enter  MARLOW. 

Marlow.  The  assiduities  of  these  good 
people  tease  me  beyond  bearing.  My  host 
seems  to  think  it  ill  manners  to  leave  me 
alone,  and  so  he  claps  not  only  himself,  but 
his  old-fashioned  wife  on  my  back.  They 
talk  of  coming  to  sup  with  us,  too;  and  then, 
I  suppose,  we  are  to  run  the  gauntlet 
through  all  the  rest  of  the  family.— What 
have  we  got  here? — 

Hastings.  My  dear  Charles !  Let  me  con- 
gratulate you— The  most  fortunate  accident! 
— Who  do  you  think  is  just  alighted? 

Marlow.     Cannot    guess. 

Hastings.  Our  mistresses,  boy,  Miss  Hard- 
castle  and  Miss  Neville.  Give  me  leave  to 
introduce  Miss  Constance  Neville  to  your  ac- 
quaintance. Happening  to  dine  in  the  neigh- 
borhood, they  called,  on  their  return  to 
take  fresh  horses,  here.  Miss  Hardcastle 
has  just  stept  into  the  next  room,  and  will 
be  back  in  an  instant.  Wasn't  it  lucky?  eh! 


333 


ACT  II,  Sc.  I. 


SHE  STOOPS  TO  CONQUER 


Marlow  [aside].  I  have  just  been  mortified 
enough  of  all  conscience,  and  here  comes 
something-  to  complete  my  embarrassment. 

Hastings.  Well !  but  wasn't  it  the  most 
fortunate  thing  in  the  world? 

Marlow.  Oh!  yes.  Very  fortunate — a  most 

joyful  encounter But  our  dresses,  George, 

you  know,  are  in  disorder What  if  we 

should  postpone  the  happiness  till  to-mor- 
row?  To-morrow  at  her  own  house It 

will  be  every  bit  as  convenient And 

rather  more  respectful To-morrow  let  it 

be.  [Offering  to  go. 

Miss  Neville.  By  no  means,  sir.  Your 
ceremony  will  displease  her.  The  disorder  of 
your  dress  will  show  the  ardor  of  your  im- 
patience. Besides,  she  knows  you  are  in  the 
house,  and  will  permit  you  to  see  her. 

Marlow.  O!  the  devil!  how  shall  I  support 
it?  Hem!  hem!  Hastings,  you  must  not  go. 
You  are  to  assist  me,  you  know.  I  shall 
be  confoundedly  ridiculous.  Yet,  hang  it ! 
I'll  take  courage.  Hem! 

Hastings.  Pshaw,  man!  it's  but  the  first 
plunge,  and  all's  over.  She's  but  a  woman, 
you  know. 

Marlow.  And  of  all  women,  she  that  I 
dread  most  to  encounter! 

Enter    Miss    HARDCASTLE,    as    returned    from 
walking,   a  bonnet,    &c. 

Hastings  [Introducing  them].  Miss  Hard- 
castle,  Mr.  Marlow,  I'm  proud  of  bringing 
two  persons  of  such  merit  together,  that  only 
want  to  know,  to  esteem  each  other. 

Miss  Hard,  [aside].  Now,  for  meeting  my 
modest  gentleman  with  a  demure  face,  and 
quite  in  his  own  manner.  [After  a  pause,  in 
which  he  appears  'eery  uneasy  and  disconcerted.] 

I'm  glad  of  your  safe  arrival,  sir I'm  told 

you  had  some  accidents  by  the  way. 

Marlow.  Only  a  few,  madam.  Yes,  we  had 
some.  Yes,  madam,  a  good  many  accidents, 
but  should  be  sorry — madam — or  rather  glad 
of  any  accidents — that  are  so  agreeably  con- 
cluded. Hem ! 

Hastings    [To   him]. 


You   never  spoke  bet- 


ter in  your  whole  life.  Keep  it  up,  and  I'll 
insure  you  the  victory. 

Miss  Hard.  I'm  afraid  you  flatter,  sir. 
You  that  have  seen  so  much  of  the  finest 
company  can  find  little  entertainment  in  an 
obscure  corner  of  the  country. 

Marlow  [Gathering  courage],  1  have  lived, 
indeed,  in  the  world,  madam;  but  I  have 
kept  very  little  company.  I  have  been  but 
an  observer  upon  life,  madam,  while  others 
were  enjoying  it. 

Miss  Neville.  But  that,  I  am  told,  is  the 
way  to  enjoy  it  at  last. 

Hastings  [To  him].  Cicero  never  spoke 
better.  Once  more,  and  you  are  confirmed 
in  assurance  for  ever. 


Marlow  [To  him].  Hem!  Stand  by  me, 
then,  and  when  I'm  down,  throw  in  a  word 
or  two  to  set  me  up  again. 

Miss  Hard.  An  observer,  like  you,  upon 
life,  were,  I  fear,  disagreeably  employed, 
since  you  must  have  had  much  more  to  cen- 
sure than  to  approve. 

Marlow.  Pardon  me,  madam.  I  was  al- 
ways willing  to  be  amused.  The  folly  of 
most  people  is  rather  an  object  of  mirth  than 
uneasiness. 

Hastings  [To  him].  Bravo,  bravo.  Never 
spoke  so  well  in  your  whole  life.  Well,  Miss 
Hardcastle,  I  see  that  you  and  Mr.  Marlow 
are  going  to  be  very  good  company.  I  be- 
lieve our  being  here  will  but  embarrass  the 
interview. 

Marlow.  Not  in  the  least,  Mr.  Hastings. 
We  like  your  company  of  all  things.  [To 
him.]  Zounds!  George,  sure  you  won't  go? 
How  can  you  leave  us? 

Hastings.  Our  presence  will  but  spoil 
conversation,  so  we'll  retire  to  the  next  room. 
[To  him.]  You  don't  consider,  man,  that  we 
are  to  manage  a  little  tete-a-tete  of  our  own. 

[Exeunt. 

Miss  Hard.  [After  a  pause].  But  you  have 
not  been  wholly  an  observer,  I  presume,  sir. 
The  ladies,  I  should  hope,  have  employed 
some  part  of  your  addresses. 

Marlow  [Relapsing  into  timidity].  Pardon 
me,  madam,  I— I— I— as  yet  have  studied- 
only — to — deserve  them. 

Miss  Hard.  And  that  some  say  is  the  very 
worst  way  to  obtain  them. 

Marlow.  Perhaps  so,  madam.  But  I  love 
to  converse  only  with  the  more  grave  and 

sensible  part  of  the  sex. But  I'm  afraid  I 

grow  tiresome. 

Miss  Hard.  Not  at  all,  sir;  there  is  noth- 
ing I  like  so  much  as  grave  conversation 
myself:  I  could  hear  it  for  ever.  Indeed,  I 
have  often  been  surprised  how  a  man  of 
sentiment  could  ever  admire  those  light  airy 
pleasures,  where  nothing  reaches  the  heart. 

Marlowe.  It's — a  disease — of  the  mind, 
madam.  In  the  variety  of  tastes  there  must 
be  some  who,  wanting  a  relish  for — um-a-um. 

Miss  Hard.  I  understand  you,  sir.  There 
must  be  some,  who,  wanting  a  relish  for  re- 
fined pleasures,  pretend  to  despise  what  they 
are  incapable  of  tasting. 

Marlow.  My  meaning,  madam,  but  in- 
finitely better  expressed.  And  I  can't  help 
observing — a 

Miss  Hard,  [aside].  Who  could  ever  sup- 
pose this  fellow  impudent  upon  some  occa- 
sions. [To  him.]  You  were  going  to  ob- 
serve, sir 

Marlow.  I  was  observing,  madam 1  pro- 
test, madam,  I  forget  what  I  was  going  to 
observe. 

Miss  Hard,  [aside].  I  vow  and  so  do  I.  [To 
him.]  You  were  observing,  sir,  that  in  this 


334 


SHE  STOOPS  TO  CONQUER 


ACT  II,  Sc.  I. 


age  of  hypocrisy— something  about  hypocrisy, 
sir. 

Marlow.  Yes,  madam.  In  this  age  of 
hypocrisy,  there  are  few  who  upon  strict 
enquiry  do  not— a — a — a 

Miss  Hard.  I  understand  you  perfectly, 
sir. 

Marlow  [aside].  Egad!  and  that's  more 
than  I  do  myself! 

Miss  Hard.  You  mean  that  in  this  hypo- 
critical age  there  are  few  that  do  not  con- 
demn in  public  what  they  practise  in  private, 
and  think  they  pay  every  debt  to  virtue 
when  they  praise  it. 

Marlow.  True,  madam;  those  who  have 
most  virtue  in  their  mouths,  have  least  of 
it  in  their  bosoms.  But  I'm  sure  I  tire  you, 
madam. 

Miss  Hard.  Not  in  the  least,  sir;  there's 
something  so  agreeable  and  spirited  in  your 

manner,  such  life  and  force pray,  sir,  go 

on. 

Marlow.  Yes,  madam.  I  was  saying 

that  there  are  some  occasions when  a  total 

want  of  courage,  madam,  destroys  all  the 
— ^and  puts  us upon  a a a 

Miss  Hard.  I  agree  with  you  entirely,  a 
want  of  courage  upon  some  occasions  as- 
sumes the  appearance  of  ignorance,  and  be- 
trays us  when  we  most  want  to  excel.  I 
beg  you'll  proceed. 

Marlow.  Yes,  madam.  Morally  speaking, 

madam But  I  see  Miss  Neville  expecting 

us  in  the  next  room.  I  would  not  intrude 
for  the  world. 

Miss  Hard.  I  protest,  sir,  I  never  was 
more  agreeably  entertained  in  all  my  life. 
Pray  go  on. 

Marlow.  Yes,  madam.  I  was But  she 

beckons  us  to  join  her.  Madam,  shall  I  do 
myself  the  honor  to  attend  you  ? 

Miss  Hard.     Well  then,  I'll  follow. 

Marlow  [aside"].  This  pretty  smooth  dia- 
logue has  done  for  me.  [Exit. 

Miss   HARDCASTLE   sola. 

Miss  Hard.  Ha!  ha!  ha!  Was  there 
ever  such  a  sober  sentimental  interview? 
I'm  certain  he  scarce  looked  in  my  face  the 
whole  time.  Yet  the  fellow,  but  for  his  un- 
accountable bashfulness,  is  pretty  well,  too. 
He  has  good  sense,  but  then  so  buried  in 
his  fears,  that  it  fatigues  one  more  than 
ignorance.  If  I  could  teach  him  a  little  con- 
fidence, it  would  be  doing  somebody  that  I 
know  of  a  piece  of  service.  But  who  is  that 
somebody? — that,  faith,  is  a  question  I  can 
scarce  answer.  [Exit. 

Enter  TONY    and   Miss    NEVILLE,    followed   by 

MRS.    HARDCASTLE    and    HASTINGS. 
Tony.     What  do  you  follow  me  for,  cousin 
Con?     I   wonder   you're    not   ashamed    to   be 
so    very    engaging. 


Miss  Neville.  I  hope,  cousin,  one  may  speak 
to  one's  own  relations,  and  not  be  to  blame. 

Tony.  Ay,  but  I  know  what  sort  of  a  re- 
lation you  want  to  make  me,  though;  but  it 
won't  do.  I  tell  you,  cousin  Con,  it  won't 
do,  so  I  beg  you'll  keep  your  distance,  I 
want  no  nearer  relationship. 

[She    follows    coquetting    him   to    the   back 
scene. 

Mrs.  Hard.  Well!  I  vow,  Mr.  Hastings, 
you  are  very  entertaining.  There's  nothing 
in  the  world  I  love  to  talk  of  so  much  as 
London,  and  the  fashions,  though  I  was 
never  there  myself. 

Hastings.  Never  there!  You  amaze  me! 
From  your  air  and  manner,  I  concluded  you 
had  been  bred  all  your  life  either  at  Rane- 
lagh,  St.  James's  or  Tower  Wharf. 

Mrs.  Hard.  O!  sir,  you're  only  pleased  to 
say  so.  We  country  persons  can  have  no 
manner  at  all.  I'm  in  love  with  the  town, 
and  that  serves  to  raise  me  above  some  of 
our  neighboring  rustics;  but  who  can  have 
a  manner,  that  has  never  seen  the  Pantheon, 
the  Grotto  Gardens,  the  Borough,  and  such 
places  where  the  nobility  chiefly  resort?  All 
I  can  do  is  to  enjoy  London  at  second-hand. 
I  take  care  to  know  every  tete-a-tcte  from  the 
Scandalous  Magazine,  and  have  all  the  fash- 
ions as  they  come  out,  in  a  letter  from  the 
two  Miss  Rickets  of  Crooked  Lane.  Pray 
how  do  you  like  this  head,  Mr.  Hastings? 

Hastings.  Extremely  elegant  and  dcgagee, 
upon  my  word,  madam.  Your  friseur  is  a 
Frenchman,  I  suppose? 

Mrs.  Hard.  I  protest,  I  dressed  it  myself 
from  a  print  in  the  Ladies'  Memorandum- 
book  for  the  last  year. 

Hastings.  Indeed.  Such  a  head  in  a  side- 
box,  at  the  Play-house,  would  draw  as  many 
gazers  as  my  Lady  Mayoress  at  a  City  Ball. 

Mrs.  Hard.  I  vow,  since  inoculation  began, 
there  is  no  such  thing  to  be  seen  as  a  plain 
woman;  so  one  must  dress  a  little  particular 
or  one  may  escape  in  the  crowd. 

Hastings.  But  that  can  never  be  your 
case,  madam,  in  any  dress!  [Bowing.] 

Mrs.  Hard.  Yet,  what  signifies  my  dress- 
ing when  I  have  such  a  piece  of  antiquity 
by  my  side  as  Mr.  Hardcastle:  all  I  can  say 
will  never  argue  down  a  single  button  from 
his  clothes.  I  have  often  wanted  him  to 
throw  off  his  great  flaxen  wig,  and  where  he 
was  bald,  to  plaster  it  over  like  my  Lord 
Pately,  with  powder. 

Hastings.  You  are  right,  madam;  for,  as 
among  the  ladies  there  are  none  ugly,  so 
among  the  men  there  are  none  old. 

Mrs.  Hard.  But  what  do  you  think  his 
answer  was?  Why,  with  his  usual  Gothic 
vivacity,  he  said  I  only  wanted  him  to  throw 
off  his  wig  to  convert  it  into  a  /.•/.•  for  my 
own  wearing! 

Hastings.     Intolerable!     At    your   age    you 


335 


ACT  II,  So.  I. 


SHE  STOOPS  TO  CONQUER 


may  wear  what  you  please,  and  it  must  be- 
come you. 

Mrs.  Hard.  Pray,  Mr.  Hastings,  what  do 
you  take  to  be  the  most  fashionable  age 
about  town  ? 

Hastings.  Some  time  ago  forty  was  all 
the  mode;  but  I'm  told  the  ladies  intend  to 
bring  up  fifty  for  the  ensuing  winter. 

Mrs.  Hard.  Seriously.  Then  I  shall  be 
too  young  for  the  fashion! 

Hastings.  No  lady  begins  now  to  put  on 
jewels  till  she's  past  forty.  For  instance, 
miss  there,  in  a  polite  circle,  would  be  con- 
sidered as  a  child,  as  a  mere  maker  of 
samplers. 

Mrs.  Hard.  And  yet  Mrs.  Niece  thinks 
herself  as  much  a  woman,  and  is  as  fond 
of  jewels  as  the  oldest  of  us  all. 

Hastings.  Your  niece,  is  she?  And  that 
young  gentleman,  a  brother  of  yours,  I 
should  presume  ? 

Mrs.  Hard.  My  son,  sir.  They  are  con- 
tracted to  each  other.  Observe  their  little 
sports.  They  fall  in  and  out  ten  times  a 
day,  as  if  they  were  man  and  wife  already. 
[To  them.}  Well,  Tony,  child,  what  soft 
things  are  you  saying  to  your  cousin  Con- 
stance, this  evening  ? 

Tony.  I  have  been  saying  no  soft  things; 
but  that  it's  very  hard  to  be  followed  about 
so!  Ecod!  I've  not  a  place  in  the  house  now 
that's  left  to  myself  but  the  stable. 

Mrs.  Hard.  Never  mind  him,  Con,  my 
dear.  He's  in  another  story  behind  your 
back. 

Miss  Neville.  There's  something  generous 
in  my  cousin's  manner.  He  falls  out  before 
faces  to  be  forgiven  in  private. 

Tony.  That's  a  damned  confounded 

crack. 

Mrs.  Hard.  Ah !  he's  a  sly  one.  Don't  you 
think  they're  like  each  other  about  the 
mouth,  Mr.  Hastings?  The  Blenkinsop 
mouth  to  a  T.  They're  of  a  size,  too.  Back 
to  back,  my  pretties,  that  Mr.  Hastings  may 
see  you.  Come,  Tony. 

Tony.  You  had  as  good  not  make  me,  I 
tell  you.  [Measuring. 

Miss  Neville.  O  lud!  he  has  almost  cracked 
my  head. 

Mrs.  Hard.  O,  the  monster!  For  shame, 
Tony.  You  a  man,  and  behave  so! 

Tony.  If  I'm  a  man,  let  me  have  my 
fortin.  Ecod!  I'll  not  be  made  a  fool  of  no 
longer. 

Mrs.  Hard.  Is  this,  ungrateful  boy,  all 
that  I'm  to  get  for  the  pains  I  have  taken 
in  your  education?  I  that  have  rocked  you 
in  your  cradle,  and  fed  that  pretty  mouth 
with  a  spoon!  Did  not  I  work  that  waist- 
coat to  make  you  genteel?  Did  not  I  pre- 
scribe for  you  every  day,  and  weep  while 
the  receipt  was  operating? 

Tony.     Ecod!  you  had  reason  to  weep,  for 


you  have  been  dosing  me  ever  since  I  was 
born.  I  have  gone  through  every  receipt  in 
the  complete  housewife  ten  times  over;  and 
you  have  thoughts  of  coursing  me  through 
Quincy  next  spring.  But,  ecod!  I  tell  you, 
I'll  not  be  made  a  fool  of  no  longer. 

Mrs.  Hard.  Wasn't  it  all  for  your  good, 
viper?  Wasn't  it  all  for  your  good? 

Tony.  I  wish  you'd  let  me  and  my  good 
alone,  then.  Snubbing  this  way  when  I'm 
in  spirits.  If  I'm  to  have  any  good,  let  it 
come  of  itself;  not  to  keep  dinging  it,  ding- 
ing it  into  one  so. 

Mrs.  Hard.  That's  false;  I  never  see  you 
when  you're  in  spirits.  No,  Tony,  you  then 
go  to  the  ale-house  or  kennel.  I'm  never  to 
be  delighted  with  your  agreeable,  wild  notes, 
unfeeling  monster! 

Tony.  Ecod!  Mamma,  your  own  notes  are 
the  wildest  of  the  two. 

Mrs.  Hard.  Was  ever  the  like?  But  I 
see  he  wants  to  break  my  heart,  I  see  he 
does. 

Hastings.  Dear  madam,  permit  me  to  lec- 
ture the  young  gentleman  a  little.  I'm  cer- 
tain I  can  persuade  him  to  his  duty. 

Mrs.  Hard.  Well!  I  must  retire.  Come, 
Constance,  my  love.  You  see,  Mr.  Hastings, 
the  wretchedness  of  my  situation.  Was  ever 
poor  woman  so  plagued  with  a  dear,  sweet, 
pretty,  provoking,  undutiful  boy? 

[Exeunt  MRS.  HARDCASTLE  and  Miss  NEVILLE. 

HASTINGS.      TONY. 

Tony  [singing].  There  was  a  young  man 
riding  by,  and  fain  would  have  his  will. 
Rang  do  didlo  dee.  Don't  mind  her.  Let  her 
cry.  It's  the  comfort  of  her  heart.  I  have 
seen  her  and  sister  cry  over  a  book  for  an 
hour  together,  and  they  said,  they  liked  the 
book  the  better  the  more  it  made  them  cry. 

Hastings.  Then  you're  no  friend  to  the 
ladies,  I  find,  my  pretty  young  gentleman? 

Tony.     That's  as  I  find  'um. 

Hastings.  Not  to  her  of  your  mother's 
choosing,  I  dare  answer!  And  yet  she  ap- 
pears to  me  a  pretty,  well-tempered  girl. 

Tony.  That's  because  you  don't  know  her 
as  well  as  I.  Ecod !  I  know  every  inch 
about  her;  and  there's  not  a  more  bitter 
cantankerous  toad  in  all  Christendom! 

Hastings  [aside].  Pretty  encouragement, 
this,  for  a  lover! 

Tony.  I  have  seen  her  since  the  height  of 
that.  She  has  as  many  tricks  as  a  hare  in  a 
thicket,  or  a  colt  the  first  day's  breaking. 

Hastings.  To  me  she  appears  sensible  and 
silent! 

Tony.  Ay,  before  company.  But  when 
she's  with  her  playmates,  she's  as  loud  as  a 
hog  in  a  gate. 

Hastings.  But  there  is  a  meek  modesty 
about  her  that  charms  me. 


336 


ACT  III,  Sc.  I. 


Tony.  Yes,  but  curb  her  never  so  little, 
she  kicks  up,  and  you're  flunj  in  a  ditch. 

Hastings.  Well,  but  you  must  allow  her  a 
little  beauty. — Yes,  you  must  allow  her  some 
beauty. 

Tony.  Bandbox!  She's  all  a  made  up 
thing,  mun.  Ah!  could  you  but  see  Bet 
Bouncer  of  these  parts,  you  might  then  talk 
of  beauty.  Ecod,  she  has  two  eyes  as  black 
as  sloes,  and  cheeks  as  broad  and  red  as  a 
pulpit  cushion.  She'd  make  two  of  she. 

Hastings.  Well,  what  say  you  to  a  friend 
that  would  take  this  bitter  bargain  off  your 
hands  ? 

Tony.     Anon. 

Hastings.  Would  you  thank  him  that 
would  take  Miss  Neville,  and  leave  you  to 
happiness  and  your  dear  Betsy? 

Tony.  Ay;  but  where  is  there  such  a 
friend,  for  who  would  take  her? 

Hastings.  I  am  he.  If  you  but  assist  me, 
I'll  engage  to  whip  her  off  to  France,  and 
you  shall  never  hear  more  of  her. 

Tony.  Assist  you !  Ecod,  I  will,  to  the 
last  drop  of  my  blood.  I'll  clap  a  pair  of 
horses  to  your  chaise  that  shall  trundle  you 
off  in  a  twinkling,  and  maybe  get  you  a 
part  of  her  fortin  besides,  in  jewels,  that  you 
little  dream  of. 

Hastings.  My  dear  'Squire,  this  looks  like 
a  lad  of  spirit. 

Tony.  Come  along  then,  and  you  shall 
see  more  of  my  spirit  before  you  have  done 
with  me.  [Singing. 

We  are  the  boys 
That   fears   no   noise 
Where   the    thundering    cannons   roar. 

[Exeunt. 


ACT  III 

[SCENE  I.— THE  HOUSE.] 
Enter  HARDCASTLE  solus. 

Hard.  What  could  my  old  friend  Sir 
Charles  mean  by  recommending  his  son  as 
the  modestest  young  man  in  town?  To  me 
he  appears  the  most  impudent  piece  of  brass 
that  ever  spoke  with  a  tongue.  He  has  taken 
possession  of  the  easy  chair  by  the  fireside 
already.  He  took  off  his  boots  in  the  par- 
lor, and  desired  me  to  see  them  taken  care 
of.  I'm  desirous  to  know  how  his  impudence 
affects  my  daughter.— She  will  certainly  be 
shocked  at  it. 

Enter    Miss    HARDCASTLE,    plainly    dressed. 

Hard.  Well,  my  Kate,  I  see  you  have 
changed  your  dress  as  I  bid  you;  and  yet,  I 
believe,  there  was  no  great  occasion. 

Miss  Hard.  1  find  such  a  pleasure,  sir,  in 
obeying  your  commands,  that  I  take  care  to 


observe    them    without    ever    debating    their 
propriety. 


Hard.  And  yet,  Kate,  I  sometimes  give 
you  some  cause,  particularly  when  I  recom- 
mended my  modest  gentleman  to  you  as  a 
lover  to-day. 

Miss  Hard.  You  taught  me  to  expect 
something  extraordinary,  and  I  find  the 
original  exceeds  the  description! 

Hard.  I  was  never  so  surprised  in  my  life! 
He  has  quite  confounded  all  my  faculties! 

Miss  Hard.  I  never  saw  anything  like  it! 
And  a  man  of  the  world,  too! 

Hard.  Ay,  he  learned  it  all  abroad, — 
what  a  fool  was  I,  to  think  a  young  man 
could  learn  modesty  by  travelling.  He  might 
as  soon  learn  wit  at  a  masquerade. 

Miss  Hard.     It  seems  all  natural  to  him. 

Hard.  A  good  deal  assisted  by  bad  com- 
pany and  a  French  dancing-master. 

Miss  Hard.  Sure,  you  mistake,  papa!  a 
French  dancing-master  could  never  have 
taught  him  that  timid  look, — that  awkward 
address, — that  bashful  manner 

Hard.     Whose  look?  whose  manner,  child? 

Miss  Hard.  Mr.  Marlow's:  his  mauvaise 
honte,  his  timidity  struck  me  at  the  first 
sight. 

Hard.  Then  your  first  sight  deceived  you; 
for  I  think  him  one  of  the  most  brazen 
first  sights  that  ever  astonished  my  senses ! 

Miss  Hard.  Sure,  sir,  you  rally !  I  never 
saw  anyone  so  modest. 

Hard.  And  can  you  be  serious!  I  never 
saw  such  a  bouncing  swaggering  puppy  since 
I  was  born.  Bully  Dawson  was  but  a  fool 
to  him. 

Miss  Hard.  Surprising!  He  met  me  with 
a  respectful  bow,  a  stammering  voice,  and  a 
look  fixed  on  the  ground. 

Hard.  He  met  me  with  a  loud  voice,  a 
lordly  air,  and  a  familiarity  that  made  my 
blood  freeze  again. 

Miss  Hard.  He  treated  me  with  diffidence 
and  respect;  censured  the  manners  of  the 
age;  admired  the  prudence  of  girls  that  never 
laughed;  tired  me  with  apologies  for  being 
tiresome;  then  left  the  room  with  a  bow,  and, 
"  madam,  I  would  not  for  the  world  detain 
you." 

Hard.  He  spoke  to  me  as  if  he  knew  me  all 
his  life  before.  Asked  twenty  questions,  and 
never  waited  for  an  answer.  Interrupted 
my  best  remarks  with  some  silly  pun,  and 
when  I  was  in  my  best  story  of  the  Duke  of 
Marlborough  and  Prince  Eugene,  he  asked  if 
I  had  not  a  good  hand  at  making  punch. 
Yes,  Kate,  he  asked  your  father  if  he  was  a 
maker  of  punch! 

Miss  Hard.  One  of  us  must  certainly  be 
mistaken. 

Hard.  If  he  be  what  he  has  shown  him- 
self, I'm  determined  he  shall  never  have  my 
consent. 

Miss  Hard.     And  if  he  be  the  sullen  thing 


I    take    him,    he   shall   never  have  mine. 
337 


ACT  III,  Sc.  I. 


SHE  STOOPS  TO  CONQUER 


Hard.  In  one  thing  then  we  are  agreed— 
to  reject  him. 

Miss  Hard.  Yes.  But  upon  conditions. 
For  if  you  should  find  him  less  impudent, 
and  I  more  presuming;  if  you  find  him  more 
respectful,  and  I  more  importunate — I  don't 
know— the  fellow  is  well  enough  for  a  man — 
Certainly  we  don't  meet  many  such  at  a  horse 
race  in  the  country. 

Hard.  It  we  should  find  him  so. — But 
that's  impossible.  The  first  appearance  has 
done  my  business.  I'm  seldom  deceived  in 
that. 

Miss  Hard.  And  yet  there  may  be  many 
good  qualities  under  that  first  appearance. 
•  Hard.  Ay,  when  a  girl  finds  a  fellow's 
outside  to  her  taste,  she  then  sets  about 
guessing  the  rest  of  his  furniture.  With 
her,  a  smooth  face  stands  for  good  sense, 
and  a  genteel  figure  for  every  virtue. 

Miss  Hard.  I  hope,  sir,  a  conversation 
begun  with  a  compliment  to  my  good  sense 
won't  end  with  a  sneer  at  my  understand- 
ing? 

Hard.  Pardon  me,  Kate.  But  if  young  Mr. 
Brazen  can  find  the  art  of  reconciling  con- 
tradictions, he  may  please  us  both,  perhaps. 

Miss  Hard.  And  as  one  of  us  must  be 
mistaken,  what  if  we  go  to  make  further 
discoveries  ? 

Hard.  Agreed.  But  depend  on't  I'm  in 
the  right. 

Miss  Hard.  And  depend  on't  I'm  not  much 
in  the  wrong.  [Exeunt. 

Enter  TONY,  running  in  with  a   casket. 

Tony.  Ecod!  I  have  got  them.  Here  they 
are.  My  cousin  Con's  necklaces,  bobs  and 
all.  My  mother  shan't  cheat  the  poor  souls 
out  of  their  fortin  neither.  O!  my  genus,  is 
that  you? 

Enter  HASTINGS. 

Hastings.  My  dear  friend,  how  have  you 
managed  with  your  mother  ?  I  hope  you  have 
amused  her  with  pretending  love  for  your 
cousin,  and  that  you  are  willing  to  be  recon- 
ciled at  last?  Our  horses  will  be  refreshed 
in  a  short  time,  and  we  shall  soon  be  ready 
to  set  off. 

Tony.  And  here's  something  to  bear  your 
charges  by  the  way.  [Giving  the  casket.] 
Your  sweetheart's  jewels.  Keep  them,  and 
hang  those,  I  say,  that  would  rob  you  of  one 
of  them! 

Hastings.  But  how  have  you  procured 
them  from  your  mother? 

Tony.  Ask  me  no  questions,  and  I'll  tell 
you  no  fibs.  I  procured  them  by  the  rule  of 
thumb.  If  I  had  not  a  key  to  every  drawer 
in  mother's  bureau,  how  could  I  go  to  the 
ale-house  so  often  as  I  do?  An  honest  man 
may  rob  himself  of  his  own  at  any  time. 

Hastings.    Thousands  do  it  every  day.    But 


to  be  plain  with  you;  Miss  Neville  is  en- 
deavoring to  procure  them  from  her  aunt 
this  very  instant.  If  she  succeeds,  it  will 
be  the  most  delicate  way  at  least  of  obtain- 
ing them. 

Tony.  Well,  keep  them,  till  you  know 
how  it  will  be.  But  I  know  how  it  will  be 
well  enough,  she'd  as  soon  part  with  the 
only  sound  tooth  in  her  head! 

Hastings.  But  I  dread  the  effects  of  her 
resentment,  when  she  finds  she  has  lost 
them. 

Tony.  Never  you  mind  her  resentment, 
leave  me  to  manage  that.  I  don't  value 
her  resentment  the  bounce  of  a  cracker. 
Zounds!  here  they  are!  Morrice,  Prance! 

[Exit   HASTINGS. 

TONY,  MRS.   HARDCASTLE,  Miss  NEVILLE. 

Mrs.  Hard.  Indeed,  Constance,  you  amaze 
me.  Such  a  girl  as  you  want  jewels?  It 
will  be  time  enough  for  jewels,  my  dear, 
twenty  years  hence,  when  your  beauty  begins 
to  want  repairs. 

Miss  Neville.  But  what  will  repair  beauty 
at  forty,  will  certainly  improve  it  at  twenty, 
madam. 

Mrs.  Hard.  Yours,  my  dear,  can  admit  of 
none.  That  natural  blush  is  beyond  a  thou- 
sand ornaments.  Besides,  child,  jewels  are 
quite  out  at  present.  Don't  you  see  half  the 
ladies  of  our  acquaintance,  my  lady  Kill-day- 
light, and  Mrs.  Crump,  and  the  rest  of  them, 
carry  their  jewels  to  town,  and  bring  nothing 
but  paste  and  marcasites  back? 

Miss  Neville.  But  who  knows,  madam,  but 
somebody  that  shall  be  nameless  would  like 
me  best  with  all  my  little  finery  about  me? 

Mrs.  Hard.  Consult  your  glass,  my  dear, 
and  then  see,  if  with  such  a  pair  of  eyes, 
you  want  any  better  sparklers.  What  do  you 
think,  Tony,  my  dear,  does  your  cousin  Con 
want  any  jewels,  in  your  eyes,  to  set  off 
her  beauty? 

Tony.     That's    as    thereafter   may    be. 

Miss  Neville.  My  dear  aunt,  if  you  knew 
how  it  would  oblige  me. 

Mrs.  Hard.  A  parcel  of  old-fashioned  rose 
and  table-cut  things.  They  would  make  you 
look  like  the  court  of  king  Solomon  at  a 
puppet-show.  Besides,  I  believe  I  can't 
readily  come  at  them.  They  may  be  miss- 
ing, for  aught  I  know  to  the  contrary. 

Tony  [apart  to  MRS.  HARD.].  Then  why 
don't  you  tell  her  so  at  once,  as  she's  so 
longing  for  them.  Tell  her  they're  lost.  It's 
the  only  way  to  quiet  her.  Say  they're  lost, 
and  call  me  to  bear  witness. 

Mrs.  Hard,  [apart  to  TONY].  You  know, 
my  dear,  I'm  only  keeping  them  for  you.  So 
if  I  say  they're  gone,  you'll  bear  me  witness, 
will  you?  He!  he!  he! 

Tony.  Never  fear  me.  Ecod!  I'll  say  I  saw 
them  taken  out  with  my  own  eyes. 


338 


SHE  STOOPS  TO  CONQUER 


ACT  III,  Sc.  I. 


Miss  Neville.  I  desire  them  but  for  a  day, 
madam.  Just  to  be  permitted  to  show  them 
as  relics,  and  then  they  may  be  locked  up 
again. 

Mrs.  Hard.  To  be  plain  with  you,  my  dear 
Constance,  if  I  could  find  them,  you  should 
have  them.  They're  missing,  I  assure  you. 
Lost,  for  aught  I  know;  but  we  must  have 
patience  wherever  they  are. 

Miss  Nez'ille.  I'll  not  believe  it;  this  is 
but  a  shallow  pretence  to  deny  me.  I  know 
they're  too  valuable  to  be  so  slightly  kept, 
and  as  you  are  to  answer  for  the  loss. 

Mrs.  Hard.  Don't  be  alarmed,  Constance. 
If  they  be  lost,  I  must  restore  an  equivalent. 
But  my  son  knows  they  are  missing,  and  not 
to  be  found. 

Tony.  That  I  can  bear  witness  to.  They 
are  missing,  and  not  to  be  found,  I'll  take 
my  oath  on't! 

Mrs.  Hard.  You  must  learn  resignation, 
my  dear;  for  though  we  lose  our  fortune,  yet 
we  should  not  lose  our  patience.  See  me, 
how  calm  I  am ! 

Miss  Neville.  Ay,  people  are  generally 
calm  at  the  misfortunes  of  others. 

Mrs.  Hard.  Now,  I  wonder  a  girl  of  your 
good  sense  should  waste  a  thought  upon 
such  trumpery.  We  shall  soon  find  them; 
and,  in  the  meantime,  you  shall  make  use  of 
my  garnets  till  your  jewels  be  found. 

Miss   Neville.     I    detest    garnets! 

Mrs.  Hard.  The  most  becoming  things  in 
the  world  to  set  off  a  clear  complexion.  You 
have  often  seen  how  well  they  look  upon  me. 


You    shall    have    them. 


[Exit. 


Miss  Neville.  I  dislike  them  of  all  things. 
You  shan't  stir.— Was  ever  anything  so  pro- 
voking— to  mislay  my  own  jewels,  and  force 
me  to  wear  her  trumpery. 

Tony.  Don't  be  a  fool.  If  she  gives  you 
the  garnets,  take  what  you  can  get.  The 
jewels  are  your  own  already.  I  have  stolen 
them  out  of  her  bureau,  and  she  does  not 
know  it.  Fly  to  your  spark,  he'll  tell  you 
more  of  the  matter.  Leave  me  to  manage 
her. 

Miss  Neville.     My    dear  cousin! 

Tony.  Vanish.  She's  here,  and  has  missed 
them  already.  [Exit  Miss  NEVILLE.]  Zounds! 
how  she  fidgets  and  spits  about  like  a 
Catharine  wheel! 

Enter  MRS.  HARDCASTLE. 

Mrs.  Hard.  Confusion!  thieves!  robbers! 
We  are  cheated,  plundered,  broke  open,  un- 
done! 

Tony.  What's  the  matter,  what's  the  mat- 
ter, mamma?  I  hope  nothing  has  happened 
to  any  of  the  good  family ! 

Mrs.  Hard.  We  are  robbed.  My  bureau 
has  been  broke  open,  the  jewels  taken  out, 


and   I'm   undone! 

Tony.     Oh!  is  that  all?    Ha!  ha!  ha! 


the  laws,  I  never  saw  it  better  acted  in  my 
life.  Ecod,  I  thought  you  was  ruined  in 
earnest,  ha,  ha,  ha! 

Mrs.  Hard.  Why,  boy,  I  am  ruined  in 
earnest.  My  bureau  has  been  broke  open, 
and  all  taken  away. 

Tony.  Stick  to  that;  ha,  ha,  ha!  stick  to 
that.  I'll  bear  witness,  you  know,  call  me 
to  bear  witness. 

Mrs.  Hard.  I  tell  you,  Tony,  by  all  that's 
precious,  the  jewels  are  gone,  and  I  shall 
be  ruined  for  ever. 

Tony.  Sure  I  know  they're  gone,  and  I 
am  to  say  so. 

Mrs.  Hard.  My  dearest  Tony,  but  hear 
me.  They're  gone,  I  say. 

Tony.  By  the  laws,  mamma,  you  make 
me  for  to  laugh,  ha!  ha!  I  know  who  took 
them  well  enough,  ha!  ha!  ha! 

Mrs.  Hard.  Was  there  ever  such  a  block- 
head, that  can't  tell  the  difference  between 
jest  and  earnest?  I  tell  you  I'm  not  in  jest, 
booby ! 

Tony.  That's  right,  that's  right:  You 
must  be  in  a  bitter  passion,  and  then  no- 
body will  suspect  either  of  us.  I'll  bear 
witness  that  they  are  gone. 

Mrs.  Hard.  Was  there  ever  such  a  cross- 
grained  brute,  that  won't  hear  me !  Can  you 
bear  witness  that  you're  no  better  than  a 
fool  ?  Was  ever  poor  woman  so  beset  with 
fools  on  one  hand,  and  thieves  on  the  other? 

Tony.     I  can   bear  witness   to   that. 

Mrs.  Hard.  Bear  witness  again,  you  block- 
head, you,  and  I'll  turn  you  out  of  the  room 
directly.  My  poor  niece,  what  will  become 
of  /;,-)-.'  Do  you  laugh,  you  unfeeling  brute, 
as  if  you  enjoyed  my  distress? 

Tony.     I  can  bear  witness  to  that. 

Mrs.  Hard.  Do  you  insult  me,  monster? 
I'll  teach  you  to  vex  your  mother,  I  will! 

Tony.     I   can  bear  witness  to   that. 

[He  runs  off,  she  follows   him. 

Enter  Miss  HARDCASTLE  and   MAID. 

Miss  Hard.  What  an  unaccountable  crea- 
ture is  that  brother  of  mine,  to  send  them 
to  the  house  as  an  inn,  ha!  ha!  I  don't  won- 
der at  his  impudence. 

Maid.  But  what  is  more,  madam,  the 
young  gentleman  as  you  passed  by  in  your 
present  dress,  asked. me  if  you  were  the  bar- 
maid ?  He  mistook  you  for  the  barmaid, 
madam ! 

Miss  Hard.  Did  he?  Then  as  I  live  I'm 
resolved  to  keep  up  the  delusion.  Tell  me, 
Pimple,  how  do  you  like  my  present  dress? 
Don't  you  think  I  look  something  like 
Cherry  in  the  Beaux'  Stratagem? 

Maid.  It's  the  dress,  madam,  that  every 
lady  wears  in  the  country,  but  when  she 
visits  or  receives  company. 


By 

339 


Miss    Hard.     And    are    you    sure     he 
not   remember  my  face  or  person? 


does 


ACT  III,  So.  I. 


SHE  STOOPS  TO  CONQUER 


Maid.     Certain   of   it! 

Miss  Hard.  I  vow,  I  thought  so;  for 
though  we  spoke  for  some  time  together,  yet 
his  fears  were  such,  that  he  never  once 
looked  up  during  the  interview.  Indeed,  if 
he  had,  my  bonnet  would  have  kept  him 
from  seeing  me. 

Maid.  But  what  do  you  hope  from  keep- 
ing him  in  his  mistake? 

Miss  Hard.  In  the  first  place,  I  shall  be 
seen,  and  that  is  no  small  advantage  to  a 
girl  who  brings  her  face  to  market.  Then  I 
shall  perhaps  make  an  acquaintance,  and 
that's  no  small  victory  gained  over  one  who 
never  addresses  any  but  the  wildest  of  her 
sex.  But  my  chief  aim  is  to  take  my  gen- 
tleman off  his  guard,  and  like  an  invisible 
champion  of  romance  examine  the  giant's 
force  before  I  offer  to  combat. 

Maid.  But  you  are  sure  you  can  act  your 
part,  and  disguise  your  voice,  so  that  he 
may  mistake  that,  as  he  has  already  mis- 
taken your  person? 

Miss  Hard.  Never  fear  me.  I  think  I  have 
got  the  true  bar  cant. — Did  your  honor  call? 
Attend  the  Lion  there. Pipes  and  to- 
bacco for  the  Angel. — The  Lamb  has  been 
outrageous  this  half-hour ! 

Maid.  It  will  do,  madam.  But  he's  here. 
[Exit  MAID. 

Enter  MARLOW. 

Marlow.  What  a  bawling  in  eve«-y  part 
of  the  house;  I  have  scarce  a  moment's  re- 
pose. If  I  go  to  the  best  room,  there  I  find 
my  host  and  his  story.  If  I  fly  to  the 
gallery,  there  we  have  my  hostess  with  her 
curtsey  down  to  the  ground.  I  have  at  last 
got  a  moment  to  myself,  and  now  for  recol- 
lection. [Walks  and  muses. 

Miss  Hard.  Did  you  call,  sir?  did  your 
honor  call  ? 

Marlow  [Musing].  As  for  Miss  Hardcastle, 
she's  too  grave  and  sentimental  for  me. 

Miss  Hard.     Did  your  honor  call? 

[She    still    places    herself    before    him,    he 
turning  away. 

Marlow.  No,  child!  [Musing.]  Besides 
from  the  glimpse  I  had  of  her,  I  think  she 
squints. 

Miss  Hard.  I'm  sure,  sir,  I  heard  the  bell 
ring. 

Marlow.     No,  no!  [Musing.']  I  have  pleased 
my    father,    however,    by    coming   down,    and 
I'll   to-morrow  please  myself  by  returning. 
[Taking    out    his    tablets,     and    perusing. 

Miss  Hard.  Perhaps  the  other  gentleman 
called,  sir? 

Marlow.     I   tell  you,  no. 

Miss  Hard.  I  should  be  glad  to  know,  sir. 
We  have  such  a  parcel  of  servants. 

Marlow.  No,  no,  I  tell  you.  [Looks  full  in 
her  face.]  Yes,  child,  I  think  I  did  call.  I 


wanted 1  wanted 1  vow,  child,  you  are 

vastly  handsome ! 

.Wi.o-  Hard.  O  la,  sir,  you'll  make  one 
ashamed. 

Marlow.  Never  saw  a  more  sprightly  ma- 
licious eye.  Yes,  yes,  my  dear,  I  did  call. 
Have  you  got  any  of  your— a— what  d'ye  call 
it  in  the  house? 

Miss  Hard.  No,  sir,  we  have  been  out  of 
that  these  ten  days. 

Marlow.  One  may  call  in  this  house,  1 
find,  to  very  little  purpose.  Suppose  I  should 
call  for  a  taste,  just  by  way  of  trial,  of  the 
nectar  of  your  lips;  perhaps  I  might  be  dis- 
appointed in  that,  too ! 

Miss  Hard.  Nectar!  nectar!  that's  a  liquor 
there's  no  call  for  in  these  parts.  French,  I 
suppose.  We  keep  no  French  wines  here, 
sir. 

Marlow.  Of  true  English  growth,  I  as- 
sure you. 

Miss  Hard.  Then  it's  odd  I  should  not 
know  it.  We  brew  all  sorts  of  wines  in 
this  house,  and  I  have  lived  here  these  eigh- 
teen years. 

Marlow.  Eighteen  years!  Why  one  would 
think,  child,  you  kept  the  bar  before  you 
were  born.  How  old  are  you? 

Miss  Hard.  O!  sir,  I  must  not  tell  my  age. 
They  say  women  and  music  should  never  be 
dated. 

Marlow.  To  guess  at  this  distance,  you 
can't  be  much  above  forty.  [Approaching.] 
Yet  nearer  I  don't  think  so  much.  [Approach- 
ing.] By  coming  close  to  some  women  they 
look  younger  still;  but  when  we  come  very 
close  indeed  [Attempting  to  kiss  her]. 

Miss  Hard.  Pray,  sir,  keep  your  distance. 
One  would  think  you  wanted  to  know  one's 
age  as  they  do  horses,  by  mark  of  mouth. 

Marlow.  I  protest,  child,  you  use  me  ex- 
tremely ill.  If  you  keep  me  at  this  distance, 
how  is  it  possible  you  and  I  can  ever  be  ac- 
quainted ? 

Miss  Hard.  And  who  wants  to  be  ac- 
quainted with  you?  I  want  no  such  acquaint- 
ance, not  I.  I'm  sure  you  did  not  treat  Miss 
Hardcastle  that  was  here  awhile  ago  in  this 
obstropalous  manner.  I'll  warrant  me,  be- 
fore her  you  looked  dashed,  and  kept  bowing 
to  the  ground,  and  talked,  for  all  the  world, 
as  if  you  was  before  a  justice  of  peace. 

Marlow  [aside].  Egad!  she  has  hit  it, 
sure  enough.  [To  her.]  In  awe  of  her,  child? 
Ha!  ha!  ha!  A  mere  awkward,  squinting 
thing,  no,  no!  I  find  you  don't  know  me. 
I  laughed,  and  rallied  her  a  little;  but  I  was 
unwilling  to  be  too  severe.  No,  I  could  not 
be  too  severe,  curse  me! 

Miss  Hard.  O!  then,  sir,  you  are  a  favor- 
ite, I  find,  among  the  ladies? 

Marlow.  Yes,  my  dear,  a  great  favorite. 
And  yet,  hang  me,  I  don't  see  what  they  find 
in  me  to  follow.  At  the  Ladies'  Club  in 


340 


SHE  STOOPS  TO  CONQUER 


ACT  IV,  Sc.  I. 


town  I'm  called  their  agreeable  Rattle. 
Rattle,  child,  is  not  my  real  name,  but  one 
I'm  known  by.  My  name  is  Solomons.  Mr. 
Solomons,  my  dear,  at  your  service. 

{.Offering  to  salute  her. 

Miss  Hard.  Hold,  sir;  you  were  introduc- 
ing me  to  your  club,  not  to  yourself.  And 
you're  so  great  a  favorite  there,  you  say? 

Marlow.  Yes,  my  dear.  There's  Mrs.  Man- 
trap, Lady  Betty  Blackleg,  the  Countess  of 
Sligo,  Mrs.  Longhorns,  old  Miss  Biddy  Buck- 
skin and  your  humble  servant,  keep  up  the 
spirit  of  the  place. 

Miss  Hard.  Then  it's  a  very  merry  place, 
I  suppose. 

Marlow.  Yes,  as  merry  as  cards,  suppers, 
wine,  and  old  women  can  make  us. 

Miss  Hard.  And  their  agreeable  Rattle, 
ha!  ha!  ha! 

Marlow  [aside].  Egad!  I  don't  quite  like 
this  chit.  She  looks  knowing,  methinks. 
You  laugh,  child! 

Miss  Hard.  I  can't  but  laugh  to  think  what 
time  they  all  have  for  minding  their  work 
or  their  family. 

Marlow  [aside].  All's  well,  she  don't  laugh 
at  me.  [To  her.]  Do  you  ever  work,  child? 

Miss  Hard.  Ay,  sure.  There's  not  a 
screen  or  a  quilt  in  the  whole  house  but  what 
can  bear  witness  to  that. 

Marlow.  Odso!  Then  you  must  show  me 
your  embroidery.  I  embroider  and  draw  pat- 
terns myself  a  little.  If  you  want  a  judge  of 
your  work  you  must  apply  to  me. 

[Seizing  her  hand. 

Enter  HARDCASTLE,  who  stands  in  surprise. 

Miss  Hard.  Ay,  but  the  colors  don't  look 
well  by  candle  light.  You  shall  see  all  in  the 
morning.  [Struggling. 

Marlow.  And  why  not  now,  my  angel  ? 
Such  beauty  fires  beyond  the  power  of  re- 
sistance.  Pshaw!  the  father  here!  My  old 

luck:  I  never  nicked  seven  that  I  did  not 
throw  amesace  three  times  following. 

[Exit  MARLOW. 

Hard.  So,  madam!  So  I  find  this  is  your 
modest  lover.  This  is  your  humble  admirer 
that  kept  his  eyes  fixed  on  the  ground,  and 
only  adored  at  humble  distance.  Kate,  Kate, 
art  thou  not  ashamed  to  deceive  your  father 
so? 

Miss  Hard.  Never  trust  me,  dear  papa, 
but  he's  still  the  modest  man  I  first  took 
him  for,  you'll  be  convinced  of  it  as  well 
as  I. 

Hard.  By  the  hand  of  my  body,  I  believe 
his  impudence  is  infectious !  Didn't  I  see 
him  seize  your  hand?  Didn't  I  see  him  haul 
you  about  like  a  milkmaid?  And  now  you 
talk  of  his  respect  and  his  modesty,  for- 
sooth ! 

Miss  Hard.  But  if  I  shortly  convince  you 
of  his  modesty,  that  he  has  only  the  faults 


that  will  pass  off  with  time,  and  the  virtues 
that  will  improve  with  age,  I  hope  you'll 
forgive  him. 

Hard.  The  girl  would  actually  make  one 
run  mad !  I  tell  you  I'll  not  be  convinced. 
I  am  convinced.  He  has  scarcely  been  three 
hours  in  the  house,  and  he  has  already  en- 
croached on  all  my  prerogatives.  You  may 
like  his  impudence,  and  call  it  modesty.  But 
my  son-in-law,  madam,  must  have  very  dif- 
ferent qualifications. 

Miss  Hard.  Sir,  I  ask  but  this  night  to 
convince  you. 

Hard.  You  shall  not  have  half  the  time, 
for  I  have  thoughts  of  turning  him  out  this 
very  hour. 

Miss  Hard.  Give  me  that  hour  then,  and 
I  hope  to  satisfy  you. 

Hard.  Well,  an  hour  let  it  be  then.  But 
I'll  have  no  trifling  with  your  father.  All 
fair  and  open,  do  you  mind  me? 

Miss  Hard.  I  hope,  sir,  you  have  ever 
found  that  I  considered  your  commands  as 
my  pride;  for  your  kindness  is  such,  that 
my  duty  as  yet  has  been  inclination. 

[Exeunt. 
ACT  IV 

[SCENE  I. — THE  HOUSE.] 
Enter   HASTINGS    and    Miss    NEVILLE. 

Hastings.  You  surprise  me!  Sir  Charles 
Marlow  expected  here  this  night?  Where 
have  you  had  your  information? 

Miss  Neville.  You  may  depend  upon  it. 
I  just  saw  his  letter  to  Mr.  Hardcastle,  in 
which  he  tells  him  he  intends  setting  out  a 
few  hours  after  his  son. 

Hastings.  Then,  my  Constance,  all  must 
be  completed  before  he  arrives.  He  knows 
me;  and  should  he  find  me  here,  would  dis- 
cover my  name,  and  perhaps  my  designs,  to 
the  rest  of  the  family. 

Miss  Neville.     The  jewels,  I  hope,  are  safe. 

Hastings.  Yes,  yes.  I  have  sent  them  to 
Marlow,  who  keeps  the  keys  of  our  baggage. 
In  the  meantime,  I'll  go  to  prepare  matters 
for  our  elopement.  I  have  had  the  'Squire's 
promise  of  a  fresh  pair  of  horses;  and,  if  I 


should    not    see    him 
further   directions. 


again,    will    write    him 

[Exit. 


Miss  Neville,  Well!  success  attend  you. 
In  the  meantime,  I'll  go  amuse  my  aunt  with 
the  old  pretence  of  a  violent  passion  for  my 
cousin.  [Exit. 

Enter  MARLOW,   followed  by  a  SERVANT. 

Marlow.  I  wonder  what  Hastings  could 
mean  by  sending  me  so  valuable  a  thing  as 
a  casket  to  keep  for  him,  when  he  knows 
the  only  place  I  have  is  the  seat  of  a  post- 
coach  at  an  inn-door.  Have  you  deposited 
the  casket  with  the  landlady,  as  I  ordered 
you?  Have  you  put  it  into  her  own  hand*? 


341 


ACT  IV.  Sc.  I. 


SHE  STOOPS  TO  CONQUER 


Seri-ant,     Yes,  your  honor. 

Marlow.  She  said  she'd  keep  it  safe,  did 
she? 

Set-ran*.  Yes,  she  said  she'd  keep  it  safe 
enough;  she  asked  me  how  I  came  by  it?  and 
she  said  she  had  a  great  mind  to  make  me 
give  an  account  of  myself.  [Ex-it  SERVANT. 

Marlow.  Ha!  ha!  ha!  They're  safe,  how- 
ever. What  an  unaccountable  set  of  beings 
have  we  got  amongst!  This  little  barmaid 
though  runs  in  my  head  most  strangely,  and 
drives  out  the  absurdities  of  all  the  rest  of 
the  family.  She's  mine,  she  must  be  mine, 
or  I'm  greatly  mistaken. 

Enter  HASTINGS. 

Hastings.  Bless  me!  I  quite  forgot  to  tell 
her  that  I  intended  to  prepare  at  the  bottom 
of  the  garden.  Marlow  here,  and  in  spirits 
too! 

Marlow.  Give  me  joy,  George!  Crown  me, 
shadow  me  with  laurels!  Well,  George,  after 
all,  we  modest  fellows  don't  want  for  success 
among  the  Women. 

Hastings.  Some  women,  you  mean.  But 
what  success  has  your  honor's  modesty  been 
crowned  with  now,  that  it  grows  so  insolent 
upon  us? 

Marlow.  Didn't  you  see  the  tempting, 
brisk,  lovely  little  thing  that  runs  about  the 
house  with  a  bunch  of  keys  to  its  girdle? 

Hastings.     Well!  and  what  then? 

Marlow.  She's  mine,  you  rogue,  you.  Such 

fire,  such  motion,  such  eyes,  such  lips but 

egad!  she  would  not  let  me  kiss  them 
though. 

Hastings.  But  are  you  sure,  so  very  sure 
of  her? 

Marlow.  Why,  man,  she  talked  of  showing 
me  her  work  above-stairs,  and  I  am  to  im- 
prove the  pattern. 

Hastings.  But  how  can  you,  Charles,  go 
about  to  rob  a  woman  of  her  honor? 

Marlow.  Pshaw!  pshaw!  we  all  know  the 
honor  of  the  barmaid  of  an  inn.  I  don't  in- 
tend to  rob  her,  take  my  word  for  it;  there's 
nothing  in  this  house  I  shan't  honestly  pay 
for! 

Hastings.     1  believe  the  girl  has  virtue. 

Marlow.  And  if  she  has,  I  should  be  the 
last  man  in  the  world  that  would  attempt  to 
corrupt  it. 

Hastings.  You  have  taken  care,  I  hope,  of 
the  casket  I  sent  you  to  lock  up?  It's  in 
safety  ? 

Marlow.  Yes,  yes.  It's  safe  enough.  I 
have  taken  care  of  it.  But  how  could  you 
think  the  seat  of  a  post-coach  at  an  inn-door 
a  place  of  safety  ?  Ah !  numbskull !  I  have 
taken  better  precautions  for  you  than  you 
did  for  yourself. 1  have 

Hastings.     What  ? 

Marlow.  I  have  sent  it  to  the  landlady  to 
keep  for  you. 


Hastings.     To  the  landlady! 

Marlow.     The    landlady. 

Hastings.     You    did ! 

Marlow.  I  did.  She's  to  be  answerable 
for  its  forth-coming,  you  know. 

Hastings.  Yes,  she'll  bring  it  forth  with  a 
witness. 

Marlow.  Wasn't  I  right?  I  believe  you'll 
allow  that  I  acted  prudently  upon  this  occa- 
sion? 

Hastings  [aside].  He  must  not  see  my  un- 
easiness. 

Marlow.  You  seem  a  little  disconcerted, 
though,  methinks.  Sure  nothing  has  hap- 
pened ? 

Hastings.  No,  nothing.  Never  was  in 
better  spirits  in  all  my  life.  And  so  you 
left  it  with  the  landlady,  who,  no  doubt,  very 
readily  undertook  the  charge? 

Marlow.  Rather  too  readily.  For  she  not 
only  kept  the  casket,  but,  through  her  great 
precaution,  was  going  to  keep  the  messenger 
too.  Ha!  ha!  ha! 

Hastings.  He!  he!  he!  They're  safe,  how- 
ever. 

Marlow.     As   a  guinea   in   a  miser's   purse. 

Hastings  [aside}.  So  now  all  hopes  of 
fortune  are  at  an  end,  and  we  must  set  off 
without  it.  [To  him.]  Well,  Charles,  I'll 
leave  you  to  your  meditations  on  the  pretty 
barmaid,  and,  he !  he !  he !  may  you  be  as 
successful  for  yourself  as  you  have  been 
for  me.  [Ex-it. 

Marlow.  Thank  ye,  George!  I  ask  no 
more.  Ha!  ha!  ha! 

Enter   HARDCASTLE. 

Hard.  I  no  longer  know  my  own  house. 
It's  turned  all  topsy-turvy.  His  servants 
have  got  drunk  already.  I'll  bear  it  no  longer, 
and  yet,  from  my  respect  for  his  father,  I'll 
be  calm.  [To  him.]  Mr.  Marlow,  your  ser- 
vant. I'm  your  very  humble  servant. 

[Bowing   low. 

Marlow.  Sir,  your  humble  servant.  [Aside.] 
What's  to  be  the  wonder  now? 

Hard.  I  believe,  sir,  you  must  be  sensible, 
sir,  that  no  man  alive  ought  to  be  more  wel- 
come than  your  father's  son,  sir.  I  hope 
you  think  so? 

Marlow.  I  do,  from  my  soul,  sir.  I  don't 
want  much  entreaty.  I  generally  make  my 
father's  son  welcome  wherever  he  goes. 

Hard.  I  believe  you  do,  from  my  soul,  sir. 
But  though  I  say  nothing  to  your  own  con- 
duct, that  of  your  servants  is  insufferable. 
Their  manner  of  drinking  is  setting  a  very 
bad  example  in  this  house,  I  assure  you. 

Marlow.  I  protest,  my  very  good  sir, 
that's  no  fault  of  mine.  If  they  don't  drink 
as  they  ought,  they  are  to  blame.  I  ordered 
them  not  to  spare  the  cellar,  I  did,  I  assure 
you.  [To  the  side  scene.]  Here,  let  one  of 
my  servants  come  up.  [To  him.]  My  posi- 


342 


SHE  STOOPS  TO  CONQUER 


ACT  IV,  Sc.  I. 


tive  directions  were,  that  as  I  did  not  drink 
myself,  they  should  make  up  for  my  defi- 
ciencies below. 

Hard.  Then  they  had  your  orders  for 
what  they  do !  I'm  satisfied ! 

Marlow.  They  had,  I  assure  you.  You 
shall  hear  from  one  of  themselves. 

Enter   SERVANT,    drunk. 

Marlow.  You,  Jeremy !  Come  forward, 
sirrah!  What  were  my  orders?  Were  you 
not  told  to  drink  freely,  and  call  for  what  you 
thought  fit,  for  the  good  of  the  house? 

Hard,  [aside].  I  begin  to  lose  my  pa- 
tience. 

Jeremy.  Please  your  honor,  liberty  and 
Fleet  Street  for  ever!  Though  I'm  but  a 
servant,  I'm  as  good  as  another  man.  I'll 
drink  for  no  man  before  supper,  sir,  dammy ! 
Good  liquor  will  sit  upon  a  good  supper,  but 

a  good  supper  will  not  sit  upon hiccup 

upon  my  conscience,  sir. 

Marlow.  You  see,  my  old  friend,  the  fel- 
low is  as  drunk  as  he  can  possibly  be.  I 
don't  know  what  you'd  have  more,  unless 
you'd  have  the  poor  devil  soused  in  a  beer- 
barrel. 

Hard.  Zounds!  He'll  drive  me  distracted 
if  I  contain  myself  any  longer.  Mr.  Marlow. 
Sir;  I  have  submitted  to  your  insolence  for 
more  than  four  hours,  and  I  see  no  likelihood 
of  its  coming  to  an  end.  I'm  now  resolved 
to  be  master  here,  sir,  and  I  desire  that  you 
and  your  drunken  pack  may  leave  my  house 
directly. 

Marlow.  Leave  your  house ! — Sure,  you 
jest,  my  good  friend!  What,  when  I'm  do- 
ing what  I  can  to  please  you! 

Hard.  I  tell  you,  sir,  you  don't  please  me; 
so  I  desire  you'll  leave  my  house. 

Marlow.  Sure,  you  cannot  be  serious!  At 
this  time  of  night,  and  such  a  night!  You 
only  mean  to  banter  me! 

Hard.  I  tell  you,  sir,  I'm  serious;  and, 
now  that  my  passions  are  roused,  I  say  this 
house  is  mine,  sir;  this  house  is  mine,  and  I 
command  you  to  leave  it  directly. 

Marlow.  Ha !  ha !  ha !  A  puddle  in  a 
storm.  I  shan't  stir  a  step,  I  assure  you. 
[In  a  serious  tone.]  This  your  house,  fellow! 
It's  my  house.  This  is  my  house.  Mine, 
while  I  choose  to  stay.  What  right  have  you 
to  bid  me  leave  this  house,  sir?  I  never 
met  with  such  impudence,  curse  me,  never 
in  my  whole  life  before! 

Hard.  Nor  I,  confound  me  if  ever  I  did! 
To  come  to  my  house,  to  call  for  what  he 
likes,  to  turn  me  out  of  my  own  chair,  to 
insult  the  family,  to  order  his  servants  to  get 
drunk,  and  then  to  tell  me,— This  house  is 
mine,  sir.  By  all  that's  impudent,  it  makes 
me  laugh.  Ha!  ha!  ha!  Pray,  sir  [Bantering], 


as    you    take    the    house,    what    think    you    of 
taking  the  rest  of  the  furniture?     There's  a 


pair  of  silver  candlesticks,  and  there's  a 
fire-screen,  and  here's  a  pair  of  brazen-nosed 
bellows,  perhaps  you  may  take  a  fancy  to 
them? 

Marlow.  Bring  me  your  bill,  sir,  bring  me 
your  bill,  and  let's  make  no  more  words 
about  it. 

Hard.  There  are  a  set  of  prints,  too. 
What  think  you  of  the  Rake's  Progress  for 
your  own  apartment  ? 

Marlow.  Bring  me  your  bill,  I  say;  and 
I'll  leave  you  and  your  infernal  house  di- 
rectly. 

Hard.  Then  there's  a  mahogany  table,  that 
you  may  see  your  own  face  in.  ' 

Marlow.     My    bill,    I    say. 

Hard.  I  had  forgot  the  great  chair,  for 
your  own  particular  slumbers,  after  a  hearty 
meal. 

Marlow.  Zounds!  bring  me  my  bill,  I  say, 
and  let's  hear  no  more  on't. 

Hard.  Young  man,  young  man,  from  your 
father's  letter  to  me,  I  was  taught  to  ex- 
pect a  well-bred  modest  man,  as  a  visitor 
here,  but  now  I  find  him  no  better  than  a 
coxcomb  and  a  bully;  but  he  will  be  down 
here  presently,  and  shall  hear  more  of  it. 

[Exit. 

Marlow.  How's  this!  Sure,  I  have  not 
mistaken  the  house?  Everything  looks  like 
an  inn.  The  servants  cry  "  coming."  The 
attendance  is  awkward;  the  barmaid,  too, 
to  attend  us.  But  she's  here,  and  will  further 
inform  me.  Whither  so  fast,  child?  A  word 
with  you. 

Enter  Miss  HARDCASTLE. 

Miss  Hard.  Let  it  be  short,  then.  I'm  in 
a  hurry. — [Aside.]  I  believe  he  begins  to 
find  out  his  mistake,  but  it's  too  soon  quite 
to  undeceive  him. 

Marlow.  Pray,  child,  answer  me  one  ques- 
tion. What  are  you,  and  what  may  your 
business  in  this  house  be? 

Miss  Hard.     A   relation   of   the  family,   sir. 

Marlow.     What?     A  poor  relation? 

Miss  Hard.  Yes,  sir.  A  poor  relation  ap- 
pointed to  keep  the  keys,  and  to  see  that  the 
guests  want  nothing  in  my  power  to  give 
them. 

Marlow.  That  is,  you  act  as  the  barmaid 
of  this  inn. 

Miss  Hard.  Inn!  O  law!— What  brought 
that  in  your  head?  One  of  the  best  families 
in  the  county  keep  an  inn!  Ha,  ha,  ha,  old 
Mr.  Hardcastle's  house  an  inn! 

Marlow.  Mr.  Hardcastle's  house!  Is  this 
house  Mr.  Hardcastle's  house,  child? 

Miss  Hard.  Ay,  sure.  Whose  else  should 
it  be? 

Marlow.  So  then  all's  out,  and  I  have  been 
damnably  imposed  on.  O.  confound  my 


stupid   head,   I   shall   be   laughed   at   over   the 
whole  town.    I  shall  be  stuck  up  in  caricatura 


343 


ACT  IV,  Sc.  I. 


SHE  STOOPS  TO  CONQUER 


in  all  the  print-shops.  The  Dullissimo 
Maccaroni.  To  mistake  this  house  of  all 
others  for  an  inn,  and  my  father's  old  friend 
for  an  inn-keeper!  What  a  swaggering 
puppy  must  he  take  me  for!  What  a  silly 
puppy  do  I  find  myself!  There  again,  may 
I  be  hanged,  my  dear,  but  I  mistook  you 
for  the  barmaid! 

Miss  Hard.  Dear  me!  dear  me!  I'm  sure 
there's  nothing  in  my  behavor  to  put  me 
upon  a  level  with  one  of  that  stamp. 

Marlow.  Nothing,  my  dear,  nothing.  But 
I  was  in  for  a  list  of  blunders,  and  could 
not  help  making  you  a  subscriber.  My 
stupidity  saw  everything  the  wrong  way.  I 
mistook  your  assiduity  for  assurance,  and 
your  simplicity  for  allurement.  But  it's  over 
— this  house  I  no  more  show  my  face  in! 

Miss  Hard.  I  hope,  sir,  I  have  done  noth- 
ing to  disoblige  you.  I'm  sure  I  should  be 
sorry  to  affront  any  gentleman  who  has 
been  so  polite,  and  said  so  many  civil  things 
to  me.  I'm  sure  I  should  be  sorry  [Pretend- 
ing to  cry.]  if  he  left  the  family  upon  my 
account.  I'm  sure  I  should  be  sorry  people 
said  anything  amiss,  since  I  have  no  for- 
tune but  my  character. 

Marlow  [aside].  By  heaven,  she  weeps. 
This  is  the  first  mark  of  tenderness  I  ever 
had  from  a  modest  woman,  and  it  touches 
me.  [To  her.]  Excuse  me,  my  lovely  girl, 
you  are  the  only  part  of  the  family  I  leave 
with  reluctance.  But  to  be  plain  with  you, 
the  difference  of  our  birth,  fortune  and  edu- 
cation, make  an  honorable  connexion  impos- 
sible; and  I  can  never  harbor  a  thought  of 
seducing  simplicity  that  trusted  in  my 
honor,  or  bringing  ruin  upon  one  whose 
only  fault  was  being  too  lovely. 

Miss  Hard,  [aside].  Generous  man!  I  now 
begin  to  admire  him.  [To  him.]  But  I'm 
sure  my  family  is  as  good  as  Miss  Hard- 
castle's,  and  though  I'm  poor,  that's  no  great 
misfortune  to  a  contented  mind,  and, 
until  this  moment,  I  never  thought  that  it 
was  bad  to  want  fortune. 

Marlow.  And  why  now,  my  pretty  sim- 
plicity? 

Miss  Hard.  Because  it  puts  me  at  a  dis- 
tance from  one,  that  if  I  had  a  thousand 
pound  I  would  give  it  all  to. 

Marlow  [aside].  This  simplicity  bewitches 
me,  so  that  if  I  stay  I'm  undone.  I  must 
make  one  bold  effort,  and  leave  her.  [To 
her.]  Your  partiality  in  my  favor,  my  dear, 
touches  me  most  sensibly,  and  were  I  to 
live  for  myself  alone,  I  could  easily  fix  my 
choice.  But  I  owe  too  much  to  the  opinion 
of  the  world,  too  much  to  the  authority  of  a 
father,  so  that— I  can  scarcely  speak  it — it 
affects  me!  Farewell!  [Exit. 

Miss  Hard.  I  never  knew  half  his  merit 
till  now.  He  shall  not  go,  if  I  have  power 
or  art  to  detain  him.  I'll  still  preserve  the 


character  in  which  I  stooped  to  conquer, 
but  will  undeceive  my  papa,  who,  perhaps, 
may  laugh  him  out  of  his  resolution.  [Exit. 

Enter  TONY,  Miss  NEVILLE. 

Tony.  Ay,  you  may  steal  for  yourselves 
the  next  time.  I  have  done  my  duty.  She 
has  got  the  jewels  again,  that's  a  sure 
thing;  but  she  believes  it  was  all  a  mis- 
take of  the  servants. 

Miss  Neville.  But,  my  dear  cousin,  sure, 
you  won't  forsake  us  in  this  distress.  If 
she  in  the  least  suspects  that  I  am  going 
off,  I  shall  certainly  be  locked  up,  or  sent 
to  my  aunt  Pedigree's,  which  is  ten  times 
worse. 

Tony.  To  be  sure,  aunts  of  all  kinds  are 
damned  bad  things.  But  what  can  I  do?  I 
have  got  you  a  pair  of  horses  that  will  fly 
like  Whistlejacket,  and  I'm  sure  you  can't 
say  but  I  have  courted  you  nicely  before 
her  face.  Here  she  comes,  we  must  court 
a  bit  or  two  more,  for  fear  she  should  sus- 
pect us.  [They  retire,  and  seem  to  fondle. 

Enter  MRS.  HARDCASTLE. 

Mrs.  Hard.  Well,  I  was  greatly  fluttered, 
to  be  sure.  But  my  son  tells  me  it  was  all 
a  mistake  of  the  servants.  I  shan't  be  easy, 
however,  till  they  are  fairly  married,  and 
then  let  her  keep  her  own  fortune.  But 
what  do  I  see?  Fondling  together,  as  I'm 
alive!  I  never  saw  Tony  so  sprightly  be- 
fore. Ah !  have  I  caught  you,  my  pretty 
doves?  What,  billing,  exchanging  stolen 
glances,  and  broken  murmurs !  Ah  ! 

Tony.  As  for  murmurs,  mother,  we 
grumble  a  little  now  and  then,  to  be  sure. 
But  there's  no  love  lost  between  us. 

Mrs.  Hard.  A  mere  sprinkling,  Tony,  upon 
the  flame,  only  to  make  it  burn  brighter. 

Miss  Neville.  Cousin  Tony  promises  to 
give  us  more  of  his  company  at  home.  In- 
deed, he  shan't  leave  us  any  more.  It  won't 
leave  us,  cousin  Tony,  will  it? 

Tony.  O!  it's  a  pretty  creature.  No,  I'd 
sooner  leave  my  horse  in  a  pound,  than 
leave  you  when  you  smile  upon  one  so. 
Your  laugh  makes  you  so  becoming. 

Miss  Neville.  Agreeable  cousin!  Who  can 
help  admiring  that  natural  humor,  that 
pleasant,  broad,  red,  thoughtless,  [Patting  his 
cheek.]  ah!  it's  a  bold  face. 

Mrs.    Hard.     Pretty    innocence! 

Tony.  I'm  sure  I  always  loved  cousin 
Con's  hazel  eyes,  and  her  pretty  long  fin- 
gers, that  she  twists  this  way  and  that,  over 
the  haspicholls,  like  a  parcel  of  bobbins. 

Mrs.  Hard.  Ah,  he  would  charm  the  bird 
from  the  tree.  I  was  never  so  happy  before. 
My  boy  takes  after  his  father,  poor  Mr. 
Lumpkin,  exactly.  The  jewels,  my  dear 
Con,  shall  be  yours  incontinently.  You  shall 
have  them.  Isn't  he  a  sweet  boy,  my  dear? 


344 


SHE  STOOPS  TO  CONQUER 


ACT  IV,  Sc.  I. 


You  shall  be  married  to-morrow,  and  we'll 
put  off  the  rest  of  his  education,  like  Dr. 
Drowsy's  sermons,  to  a  fitter  opportunity. 


•Enter 
Diggory.     Where's 


DlGGORY. 

the     'Squire  ? 


I     have 


got  a  letter  for  your  worship. 

Tony.  Give  it  to  my  mamma.  She  reads 
all  my  letters  first. 

Diggory.  I  had  orders  to  deliver  it  into 
your  own  hands. 

Tony.     Who  does  it  come  from? 

Diggory.  Your  worship  mun  ask  that  of 
the  letter  itself. 

Tony.     I  could   wish   to  know,   though. 

[Turning  the  letter,  and  gazing  on  it. 

Miss  Neville  [aside].  Undone,  undone!  A 
letter  to  him  from  Hastings.  I  know  the 
hand.  If  my  aunt  sees  it,  we  are  ruined  for 
ever.  I'll  keep  her  employed  a  little  if  I 
can.  [To  MRS.  HARDCASTLE.]  But  I  have  not 
told  you,  madam,  of  my  cousin's  smart 
answer  just  now  to  Mr.  Marlow.  We  so 
laughed — you  must  know,  madam — this  way 
a  little,  for  he  must  not  hear  us.  [They 
confer.] 

Tony  [Still  gazing].  A  damned  cramp 
piece  of  penmanship,  as  ever  I  saw  in  my 
life.  I  can  read  your  print-hand  very  well. 
But  here  there  are  such  handles,  and  shanks, 
and  dashes,  that  one  can  scarce  tell  the 
head  from  the  tail.  To  Anthony  Lumpkin, 
Esquire.  It's  very  odd,  I  can  read  the  out- 
side of  my  letters,  where  my  own  name  is, 
well  enough.  But  when  I  come  to  open  it, 
it's  all — buzz.  That's  hard,  very  hard;  for 
the  inside  of  the  letter  is  always  the  cream 
of  the  correspondence. 

Mrs.  Hard.  Ha!  ha!  ha!  Very  well,  very 
well.  And  so  my  son  was  too  hard  for  the 
philosopher ! 

Miss  Neville.  Yes,  madam;  but  you  must 
hear  the  rest,  madam.  A  little  more  this 
way,  or  he  may  hear  us.  You'll  hear  how 
he  puzzled  him  again. 

Mrs.  Hard.  He  seems  strangely  puzzled 
now  himself,  methinks. 

Tony  [Still  gazing].  A  damned  up  and 
down  hand,  as  if  it  was  disguised  in  liquor. 
[Reading.]  Dear  Sir.  Ay,  that's  that.  Then 
there's  an  M,  and  a  T,  and  an  5,  but 
whether  the  next  be  an  izzard  or  an  R.  con- 
found me,  I  cannot  tell! 

Mrs.  Hard.  What's  that,  my  dear?  Can 
I  give  you  any  assistance? 

Miss  Neville.  Pray,  aunt,  let  me  read  it. 
Nobody  reads  a  cramp  hand  better  than  I. 
[Twitching  the  letter  from  her.]  Do  you 
know  who  it  is  from? 

Tony.  Can't  tell,  except  from  Dick  Gin- 
ger the  feeder. 

Miss  Neville.  Ay,  so  it  is.  [Pretending  to 
read.]  "  Dear  'Squire,  Hoping  that  you're  in 


health,   as    I   am   at   this   present. 


tlemen  of  the  Shake-bag  club  has  cut  the 
gentlemen  of  Goose-green  quite  out  of 
feather.  The  odds— um— odd  battle — um — 
long  fighting— um,  here,  here,  it's  all  about 
cocks,  and  fighting;  it's  of  no  consequence, 
here,  put  it  up,  put  it  up. 

[Thrusting  the  crumpled  letter  upon  him. 

Tony.  But  I  tell  you,  miss,  it's  of  all  the 
consequence  in  the  world!  I  would  not  lose 
the  rest  of  it  for  a  guinea!  Here,  mother, 
do  you  make  it  out.  Of  no  consequence! 

[Giving    MRS.    HARDCASTLE    the    letter. 

Mrs.  Hard.  How's  this !  [Reads.]  "  Dear 
'Squire,  I'm  now  waiting  for  Miss  Neville, 
with  a  post-chaise  and  pair,  at  the  bottom 
of  the  garden,  but  I  find  my  horses  yet  un- 
able to  perform  the  journey.  I  expect  you'll 
assist  us  with  a  pair  of  fresh  horses,  as  you 
promised.  Dispatch  is  necessary,  as  the  hag 
(ay,  the  hag)  your  mother,  will  otherwise 
suspect  us.  Yours,  Hastings."  Grant  me 
patience.  I  shall  run  distracted!  My  rage 
chokes  me. 

Miss  Neville.  I  hope,  madam,  you'll  sus- 
pend your  resentment  for  a  few  moments, 
and  not  impute  to  me  any  impertinence,  or 
sinister  design  that  belongs  to  another. 

Mrs.  Hard.  [Curtseying  very  low].  Fine 
spoken,  madam,  you  are  most  miraculously 
polite  and  engaging,  and  quite  the  very  pink 
of  courtesy  and  circumspection,  madam. 
[Changing  her  tone.]  And  you,  you  great  ill- 
fashioned  oaf,  with  scarce  sense  enough  to 
keep  your  mouth  shut.  Were  you  too  joined 
against  me?  But  I'll  defeat  all  your  plots 
in  a  moment.  As  for  you,  madam,  since  you 
have  got  a  pair  of  fresh  horses  ready,  it 
would  be  cruel  to  disappoint  them.  So,  if 
you  please,  instead  of  running  away  with 
your  spark,  prepare,  this  very  moment,  to 
run  off  with  inc.  Your  old  aunt  Pedigree 
will  keep  you  secure,  I'll  v  arrant  me.  You, 
too,  sir,  may  mount  your  horse,  and  guard 
us  upon  the  way.  Here,  Thomas,  Roger, 
Diggory  !  I'll  show  you  that  I  wish  you  bet- 


ter  than   you   do    yourselves. 

Neville.     So     now     I'm 


[Exit. 
completely 


Miss 
ruined. 

Tony.     Ay,   that's  a  sure  thing. 

Miss  Neville.  What  better  could  be  ex- 
pected from  being  connected  with  such  a 
stupid  fool,  and  after  all  the  nods  and  signs 
I  made  him  ? 

Tony.  By  the  laws,  miss,  it  was  your 
own  cleverness,  and  not  my  stupidity,  that 
did  your  business.  You  were  so  nice  and  so 
busy  with  your  Shake-bags  and  Goose-greens 
that  I  thought  you  could  never  be  making 
believe. 

Enter    HASTINGS. 


The   gen- 

345 


Hastings.  So,  sir,  I  find  by  my  servant, 
that  you  have  shown  my  letter,  and  betrayed 
us.  Was  this  well  done,  young  gentleman? 


ACT  V,  Sc.  I. 


SHE  STOOPS  TO  CONQUER 


Tony.     Here's    another.      Ask    miss     there 


who   betrayed   you. 
not    mine. 


Ecod,  it  was  her  doing, 


Enter    MARLOW. 

Marlow.  So  I  have  been  finery  used  here 
among  you.  Rendered  contemptible,  driven 
into  ill  manners,  despised,  insulted,  laughed 
at. 

Tony.  Here's  another.  We  shall  have 
old  Bedlam  broke  loose  presently. 

Miss  Neville.  And  there,  sir,  is  the  gen- 
tleman to  whom  we  all  owe  every  obliga- 
tion. 

Marlow.  What  can  I  say  to  him?  a  mere 
boy,  an  idiot,  whose  ignorance  and  age  are 
a  protection. 

Hastings.  A  poor  contemptible  booby, 
that  would  but  disgrace  correction. 

Miss  Neville.  Yet  with  cunning  and  malice 
enough  to  make  himself  merry  with  all  our 
embarrassments. 

Hastings.     An  insensible  cub. 

Marlow.  Replete  with  tricks  and  mis- 
chief. 

Tony.  Baw!  damme,  but  I'll  fight  you 
both  one  after  the  other, with  baskets. 

Marlow.  As  for  him,  he's  below  resent- 
ment. But  your  conduct,  Mr.  Hastings,  re- 
quires an  explanation.  You  knew  of  my 
mistakes,  yet  would  not  undeceive  me. 

Hastings.  Tortured  as  I  am  with  my  own 
disappointments,  is  this  a  time  for  explana- 
tions? It  is  not  friendly,  Mr.  Marlow. 

Marlow.     But,   sir 

Miss  Neville.  Mr.  Marlow,  we  never  kept 
on  your  mistake,  till  it  was'  too  late  to 
undeceive  you.  Be  pacified. 

Enter    SERVANT. 

Servant.  My  mistress  desires  you'll  get 
ready  immediately,  madam.  The  horses  are 


Miss  Neville.  I  come.  Pray  be  pacified. 
If  I  leave  you  thus,  I  shall  die  with  appre- 
hension ! 

Enter   SERVANT. 

Servant.  Your  fan,  muff,  and  gloves, 
madam.  The  horses  are  waiting. 

Miss  Neville.  O,  Mr.  Marlow!  if  you  knew 
what  a  scene  of  constraint  and  ill-nature  lies 
before  me,  I'm  sure  it  would  convert  your 
resentment  into  pity. 

Marlow.  I'm  so  distracted  with  a  variety 
of  passions,  that  I  don't  know  what  I  do. 
Forgive  me,  madam.  George,  forgive  me. 
You  know  my  hasty  temper,  and  should  not 
exasperate  it. 

Hastings.  The  torture  of  my  situation  is 
my  only  excuse. 

Miss  Neville.  Well,  my  dear  Hastings,  if 
you  have  that  esteem  for  me  that  I  think, 
that  I  am  sure  you  have,  your  constancy 
for  three  years  will  but  increase  the  happi- 
ness of  our  future  connection.  If 

Mrs.  Hard.  [Within].  Miss  Neville.  Con- 
stance, why,  Constance,  I  say. 

Miss  Neville.  I'm  coming.  Well,  con- 
stancy. Remember,  constancy  is  the  word. 

[Exit. 

Hastings.  My  heart!  How  can  I  support 
this?  To  be  so  near  happiness,  and  such 
happiness ! 

Marlow  [To  TONY].  You  see  now,  young 
gentleman,  the  effects  of  your  folly.  What 
might  be  amusement  to  you,  is  here  disap- 
pointment, and  even  distress. 

Tony  [From  a  reverie].  Ecod,  I  have  hit 
it.  It's  here.  Your  hands.  Yours  and 
yours,  my  poor  Sulky.  My  boots  there,  ho! 
Meet  me  two  hours  hence  at  the  bottom  of 
the  garden;  and  if  you  don't  find  Tony 
Lumpkin  a  more  good-natured  fellow  than 
you  thought  for,  I'll  give  you  leave  to  take 


putting  to.     Your  hat  and  things  are  in  the    mv    b«st    horse,    and    Bet    T  ouncer    into    the 


next  room.    We  are  to  go  thirty  miles  before 
morning.  [Exit    SERVANT. 

Miss   Neville.     Well,    well;    I'll    come   pres-  ! 
ently. 

Marlow  [To  Hastings].  Was  it  well  done, 
sir,  to  assist  in  rendering  me  ridiculous?  To 
hang  me  out  for  the  scorn  of  all  my  ac- 
quaintance? Depend  upon  it,  sir,  I  shall  ex- 
pect an  explanation. 

Hastings.  Was  it  well  done,  sir,  if  you're 
upon  that  subject,  to  deliver  what  I  en- 
trusted to  yourself,  to  the  care  of  another, 
sir? 

Miss  Nei'ille.  Mr.  Hastings.  Mr.  Marlow. 
Why  will  you  increase  my  distress  by  this 
groundless  dispute?  I  implore,  I  entreat 
you 

Enter  SERVANT. 


bargain!     Come  along. 


My   boots,   ho! 

[Exeunt. 


Servant.     Your    cloak,    madam.      My    mis- 
tress   is    impatient.  [Exit    SERVANT. 

346 


ACT  V 

SCENE    I — CONTINUES. 
Enter  HASTINGS  and  SERVANT. 

Hastings.  You  saw  the  old  lady  and  Miss 
Neville  drive  off,  you  say? 

Servant.  Yes,  your  honor.  They  went 
off  in  a  post-coach,  and  the  young  'Squire 
went  on  horseback.  They're  thirty  miles  off 
by  this  time. 

Hastings.     Then  all  my  hopes  are  over. 

Servant.  Yes,  sir.  Old  Sir  Charles  is  ar- 
rived. He  and  the  old  gentleman  of  the 
house  have  been  laughing  at  Mr.  Marlow's 
mistake  '  this  half-hour.  They  are  coming 
this  way. 

Hastings.     Then    I   must   not    be   seen.     So 


ACT  V,  Sc.  I. 


now  to  my  fruitless  appointment  at  the 
bottom  of  the  garden.  This  is  about  the 
time.  [Exit. 

Enter  SIR  CHARLES   and  HARDCASTLE. 

Hard.  Ha!  ha!  ha!  The  peremptory  tone 
in  which  he  sent  forth  his  sublime  com- 
mands. 

Sir  Charles.  And  the  reserve  with  which  I 
suppose  he  treated  all  your  advances. 

Hard.  And  yet  he  might  have  seen  some- 
thing in  me  above  a  common  innkeeper,  too. 

Sir  Charles.  Yes,  Dick,  but  he  mistook 
you  for  an  uncommon  innkeeper;  ha!  ha!  ha! 

Hard.  Well,  I'm  in  too  good  spirits  to 
think  of  anything  but  joy.  Yes,  my  dear 
friend,  this  union  of  our  families  will  make 
our  personal  friendships  hereditary:  and 
though  my  daughter's  fortune  is  but  small 

Sir  Charles.  Why,  Dick,  will  you  talk  of 
fortune  to  inc.'  My  son  is  possessed  of 
more  than  a  competence  already,  and  can 
want  nothing  but  a  good  and  virtuous  girl 
to  share  his  happiness  and  increase  it.  If 
they  like  each  other,  as  you  say  they  do 

Hard.  If,  man!  I  tell  you  they  do  like 
each  other.  My  daughter  as  good  as  told 
me  so. 

Sir  Charles.  But  girls  are  apt  to  flatter 
themselves,  you  know. 

Hard.  I  saw  him  grasp  her  hand  in  the 
warmest  manner  myself;  and  here  he  comes 
to  put  you  out  of  your  ifs,  I  warrant  him. 

Enter  MARLOW. 

Mar  low.  I  come,  sir,  on-e  more,  to  ask 
pardon  for  my  strange  conduct.  I  can  scarce 
reflect  on  my  insolence  without  confusion. 

Hard.  Tut,  boy,  a  trifle.  You  take  it  too 
gravely.  An  hour  or  two's  laughing  with 
my  daughter  will  set  all  to  rights  again. 
She'll  never  like  you  the  worse  for  it. 

Marlow.  Sir,  I  shall  be  always  proud  of 
her  approbation. 

Hard.  Approbation  is  but  a  cold  word,  Mr. 
Marlow;  if  I  am  not  deceived,  you  have 
something  more  than  approbation  there- 
abouts. You  take  me. 

Marlow.  Really,  sir,  I  have  not  that  hap- 
piness. 

Hard.  Come,  boy,  I'm  an  old  fellow,  and 
know  what's  what,  as  well  as  you  that  are 
younger.  I  know  what  has  passed  between 
you;  but  mum. 

Marlow.  Sure,  sir,  nothing  has  passed  be- 
tween us  but  the  most  profound  respect  on 
my  side,  and  the  most  distant  reserve  on 
hers.  You  don't  think,  sir,  that  my  impu- 
dence has  been  passed  upon  all  the  rest  of 
the  family. 

Hard.  Impudence!  No,  I  don't  say  that — 
Not  quite  impudence — Though  girls  like  to 
be  played  with,  and  rumpled  a  little  too, 


But  she  has  told  no  tales,  I  as- 
I    never    gave    her    the    slightest 


I    like    modesty    in    its 


sometimes, 
sure  you. 

Marlow. 
cause. 

Hard.     Well,    well, 

place  well  enough.  But  this  is  over-acting, 
young  gentleman.  You  may  be  open.  Your 
father  and  I  will  like  you  the  better  for  it. 

Marlow.     May    I    die,    sir,    if    I   ever 

Hard.  I  tell  you,  she  don't  dislike  you; 
and  as  I'm  sure  you  like  her 

Marlow.     Dear   sir — I    protest,    sir 

Hard.  I  see  no  reason  why  you  should 
not  be  joined  as  fast  as  the  parson  can  tie 
you. 

Marlow.     But   hear   me,   sir 

Hard.  Your  father  approves  the  match,  I 
admire  it,  every  moment's  delay  will  be 
doing  mischief,  so 

Marlow.  But  why  won't  you  hear  me? 
By  all  that's  just  and  true,  I  never  gave 
Miss  Hardcastle  the  slightest  mark  of  my 
attachment,  or  even  the  most  distant  hint 
to  suspect  me  of  affection.  We  had  but  one 
interview,  and  that  was  formal,  modest,  and 
uninteresting. 

Hard,  [aside'].  This  fellow's  formal,  modest 
impudence  is  beyond  bearing. 

Sir  Charles.  And  you  never  grasped  her 
hand,  or  made  any  protestations ! 

Marlow.  As  heaven  is  my  witness,  I  came 
down  in  obedience  to  your  commands.  I  saw 
the  lady  without  emotion,  and  parted  with- 
out reluctance.  I  hope  you'll  exact  no 
further  proofs  of  my  duty,  nor  prevent  me 
from  leaving  a  house  in  which  I  suffer  so 
many  mortifications.  [/:.••;/. 

Sir  Charles.  I'm  astonished  at  the  air  of 
sincerity  with  which  he  parted. 

Hard.  And  I'm  astonished  at  the  delib- 
erate intrepidity  of  his  assurance. 

Sir  Charles.  I  dare  pledge  my  life  and 
honor  upon  his  truth. 

Hard.  Here  comes  my  daughter,  and  I 
would  stake  my  happiness  upon  her  veracity. 

Enter  Miss  HARDCASTLE. 

Hard.  Kate,  come  hither,  child.  Answer 
us  sincerely,  and  without  reserve;  has  Mr. 
Marlow  made  you  any  professions  of  love 
and  affection? 

Miss  Hard.  The  question  is  very  abrupt, 
sir!  But  since  you  require  unreserved  sin- 
cerity, I  think  he  has. 

Hard.     [To  SIR  CHARLES].    You  see. 

Sir  Charles.  And  pray,  madam,  have  you 
and  my  son  had  more  than  one  interview? 

Miss    Hard.     Yes,    sir,    several. 

Hard.     [To  SIR  CHARLES].    You  see. 

Sir    Charles. 
tachment? 

Miss  Hard. 

Sir  Charles. 

Miss    Hard. 


But    did    he    profess    any    at- 

A  lasting  one. 
Did   he   talk   of  love? 
Much,    sir. 


347 


ACT  V,  Sc.  II. 


SHE  STOOPS  TO  CONQUER 


Sir  Charles.  Amazing!  And  all  this  for- 
mally ? 

Miss  Hard.     Formally. 

Hard.  Now,  .  my  friend,  I  hope  you  are 
satisfied. 

Sir  Charles.  And  how  did  he  behave, 
madam  ? 

Miss  Hard.  As  most  professed  admirers 
do.  Said  some  civil  things  of  my  face, 
talked  much  of  his  want  of  merit,  and  the 
greatness  of  mine;  mentioned  his  heart, 
gave  a  short  tragedy  speech,  and  ended  with 
pretended  rapture. 

Sir  Charles.  Now  I'm  perfectly  convinced, 
indeed.  I  know  his  conversation  among 
women  to  be  modest  and  submissive.  This 
forward,  canting,  ranting  manner  by  no 
means  describes  him,  and  I  am  confident  he 
never  sat  for  the  picture. 

Miss  Hard.  Then  what,  sir,  if  I  should 
convince  you  to  your  face  of  my  sincerity? 
If  you  and  my  papa,  in  about  half-an-hour, 
will  place  yourselves  behind  that  screen, 
you  shall  hear  him  declare  his  passion  to  me 
in  person. 

Sir  Charles.  Agreed.  And  if  I  find  him 
what  you  describe,  all  my  happiness  in  him 
must  have  an  end.  [Exit. 

Miss  Hard.  And  if  you  don't  find  him 
what  I  describe — I  fear  my  happiness  must 
never  have  a  beginning.  [Exeunt. 

SCENE  II 

CHANGES  TO  THE   BACK  OF  THE   GARDEN. 
Enter   HASTINGS. 

Hastings.  What  an  idiot  am  I,  to  wait  here 
for  a  fellow,  who  probably  takes  a  delight  in 
mortifying  me.  He  never  intended  to  be 
punctual,  and  I'll  wait  no  longer.  What  do 
I  see?  It  is  he,  and  perhaps  with  news  of 
my  Constance. 

Enter  TONY,  booted  and  spattered. 

Hastings.  My  honest  'Squire!  I  now  find 
you  a  man  of  your  word.  This  looks  like 
friendship. 

Tony.  Ay,  I'm  your  friend,  and  the  best 
friend  you  have  in  the  world,  if  you  knew 
but  all.  This  riding  by  night,  by-the-bye, 
is  cursedly  tiresome.  It  has  shook  me  worse 
than  the  basket  of  a  stage-coach. 

Hastings.  But  how?  Where  did  you  leave 
your  fellow-travellers  ?  Are  they  in  safety  ? 
Are  they  housed? 

Tony.  Five  and  twenty  miles  in  two 
hours  and  a  half  is  no  such  bad  driving. 
The  poor  beasts  have  smoked  for  it:  rabbit 
me,  but  I'd  rather  ride  forty  miles  after  a 
fox,  than  ten  with  such  rarment. 

Hastings.  Well,  but  where  have  you  left 
the  ladies?  I  die  with  impatience. 


Tony.  Left  them?  Why,  where  should  I 
leave  them,  but  where  I  found  them? 

Hastings.     This   is   a   riddle. 

Tony.  Riddle  me  this,  then.  What's  that 
goes  round  the  house,  and  round  the  house, 
and  never  touches  the  house? 

Hastings.     I'm    still    astray. 

Tony.  Why,  that's  it,  mon.  I  have  led 
them  astray.  By  jingo,  there's  not  a  pond 
or  slough  within  five  miles  of  the  place  but 
they  can  tell  the  taste  of. 

Hastings.  Ha,  ha,  ha,  I  understand;  you 
took  them  in  a  round,  while  they  supposed 
themselves  going  forward.  And  so  you 
have  at  last  brought  th.m  home  again? 

Tony.  You  shall  hear.  I  first  took  them 
down  Feather-Bed  Lane,  where  we  stuck 
fast  in  the  mud.  I  then  rattled  them  crack 
over  the  stones  of  Up-and-down  Hill— I  then 
introduced  them  to  the  gibbet  on  Heavy - 
Tree  Heath,  and  from  that,  with  a  circum- 
bendibus, I  fairly  lodged  them  in  the  horse- 
pond  at  the  bottom  of  the  garden. 

Hastings.     But  no  accident,  I  hope. 

Tony.  No,  no.  Only  mother  is  confound- 
edly frightened.  She  thinks  herself  forty 
miles  off.  She's  sick  of  the  journey,  and 
the  cattle  can  scarce  crawl.  So,  if  your  own 
horses  be  ready,  you  may  whip  off  with 
cousin,  and  I'll  be  bound  that  no  soul  here 
can  budge  afoot  to  follow  you. 

Hastings.  My  dear  friend,  how  can  I  be 
grateful  ? 

Tony.  Ay,  now  it's  dear  friend,  noble 
'Squire.  Just  now,  it  was  all  idiot,  cub,  and 
run  me  through  the  guts.  Damn  your  way 
of  fighting,  I  say.  After  we  take  a  knock 
in  this  part  of  the  country,  we  kiss  and  be 
friends.  But  if  you  had  run  me  through  the 
guts,  then  I  should  be  dead,  and  you  might 
go  kiss  the  hangman. 

Hastings.  The  rebuke  is  just.  But  I  must 
hasten  to  relieve  Miss  Neville;  if  you  keep 
the  old  lady  employed,  I  promise  to  take 
care  of  the  young  one. 

Tony.  Never  fear  me.  Here  she  comes. 
Vanish.  {Exit  HASTINGS.]  She's  got  from 
the  pond,  and  draggled  up  to  the  waist  like 
a  mermaid. 

Enter  MRS.   HARDCASTLE. 

Mrs.  Hard.  Oh,  Tony,  I'm  killed.  Shook. 
Battered  to  death.  I  shall  never  survive  it. 
That  last  jolt  that  laid  us  against  the  quick- 
set hedge  has  done  my  business. 

Tony.  Alack,  mamma,  it  was  all  your  own 
fault.  You  would  be  for  running  away  by 
night,  without  knowing  one  inch  of  the  way. 

Mrs.  Hard.  I  wish  we  were  at  home  again. 
I  never  met  so  many  accidents  in  so  short 
a  journey.  Drenched  in  the  mud,  overturned 
in  a  ditch,  stuck  fast  in  a  slough,  jolted  to 
a  jelly,  and  at  last  to  lose  our  way!  Where- 
abouts do  you  think  we  are,  Tony  ? 


348 


SHE  STOOPS  TO  CONQUER 


ACT  V,  Sc.  II. 


Tony.  By  my  guess  we  should  be  upon 
Crack-skull  Common,  about  forty  miles  from 
home. 

Mrs.  Hard.  O  lud!  O  lud!  the  most  no- 
torious spot  in  all  the  country.  We  only 
want  a  robbery  to  make  a  complete  night 
on't. 

Tony.  Don't  be  afraid,  mamma,  don't  be 
afraid.  Two  of  the  five  that  kept  here  are 
hanged,  and  the  other  three  may  not  find  us. 
Don't  be  afraid.  Is  that  a  man  that's  gal- 
loping behind  us?  No;  it's  only  a  tree. 
Don't  be  afraid. 

Mrs.  Hard.  The  fright  will  certainly  kill 
me. 

Tony.  Do  you  see  any  thing  like  a  black 
hat  moving  behind  the  thicket? 

Mrs.  Hard.     O  death! 

Tony.  No,  it's  only  a  cow.  Don't  be 
afraid,  mamma,  don't  be  afraid. 

Mrs.  Hard.  As  I'm  alive,  Tony,  I  see 
a  man  coining  towards  us.  Ah !  I'm  sure 
on't.  If  he  perceives  us,  we  are  undone. 

Tony  [aside}.  Father-in-law,  by  all  that's 
unlucky,  come  to  take  one  of  his  night 
walks.  [To  her.}  Ah,  it's  a  highwayman, 
with  pistols  as  long  as  my  arm.  A  damned 
ill-looking  fellow. 

Mrs.  Hard.  Good  heaven  defend  us!  He 
approaches. 

Tony.  Do  you  hide  yourself  in  that 
thicket,  and  leave  me  to  manage  him.  If 
there  be  any  danger  I'll  cough  and  cry  hem. 
When  I  cough  be  sure  to  keep  close. 

[MRS.    HARDCASTLE   hides   behind   a   tree   in 
the  back  scene. 

Enter  HARDCASTLE. 

Hard.  I'm  mistaken,  or  I  heard  voices  of 
people  in  want  of  help.  Oh,  Tony,  is  that 
you?  I  did  not  expect  you  so  soon  back. 
Are  your  mother  and  her  charge  in  safety? 

Tony.  Very  safe,  sir,  at  my  aunt  Pedi- 
gree's. Hem. 

Mrs.  Hard.  [From  behind}.  Ah!  I  find 
there's  danger. 

Hard.  Forty  miles  in  three  hours;  sure, 
that's  too  much,  my  youngster. 

Tony.  Stout  horses  and  willing  minds 
make  short  journeys,  as  they  say.  Hem. 

Mrs.  Hard.  [From  behind}.  Sure  he'll  do 
the  dear  boy  no  harm. 

Hard.  But  I  heard  a  voice  here;  I  should 
be  glad  to  know  from  whence  it  came? 

Tony.  It  was  I,  sir,  talking  to  myself,  sir. 
I  was  saying  that  forty  miles  in  four  hours 
was  very  good  going.  Hem.  As  to  be  sure 
it  was.  Hem.  I  have  got  a  sort  of  cold  by 


being    out    in    the    air. 
please.    Hem. 


We'll    go    in    if    you 


Hard.     But   if   you   talked    to  yourself,   you 


did  not  answer  yourself.  I  am  certain  I  heard 
two  voices,  and  am  resolved  [Raising  his 
voice.}  to  find  the  other  out. 

349 


Mrs.  Hard.  [From  behind}.  Oh!  he's  com- 
ing to  find  me  out.  Oh! 

Tony.  What  need  you  go,  sir,  if  I  tell 
you?  Hem.  I'll  lay  down  my  life  for  the 
truth — hem — I'll  tell  you  all,  sir. 

[Detaining    him. 

Hard.  I  tell  you  I  will  not  be  detained. 
I  insist  on  seeing.  It's  in  vain  to  expect 
I'll  believe  you. 

Mrs.  Hard.  [Running  forward  from  behind}. 
O  lud,  he'll  murder  my  poor  boy,  my  darling. 
Here,  good  gentleman,  whet  your  rage  upon 
me.  Take  my  money,  my  life,  but  spare  that 
young  gentleman,  spare  my  child,  if  you  have 
any  mercy. 

Hard.  My  wife!  as  I'm  a  Christian.  From 
whence  can  she  come,  or  what  does  she 
mean? 

Mrs.  Hard.  [Kneeling}.  Take  compassion 
on  us,  good  Mr.  Highwayman.  Take  our 
money,  our  watches,  all  we  have,  but  spare 
our  lives.  We  will  never  bring  you  to  jus- 
tice, indeed  we  won't,  good  Mr.  Highwayman. 

Hard.  1  believe  the  woman's  out  of  her 
senses.  What,  Dorothy,  don't  you  know  me? 

Mrs.  Hard.  Mr.  Hardcastle,  as  I'm  alive! 
My  fears  blinded  me.  But  who,  my  dear, 
could  have  expected  to  meet  you  here,  in  this 
frightful  place,  so  far  from  home?  What  has 
brought  you  to  follow  us? 

Hard.  Sure,  Dorothy,  you  have  not  lost 
your  wits!  So  far  from  home,  when  you  are 
within  forty  yards  of  your  own  door!  [To 
him.}  This  is  one  of  your  old  tricks,  you 
graceless  rogue,  you!  [To  her.}  Don't  you 
know  the  gate,  and  the  mulberry-tree;  and 
don't  you  remember  the  horsepond,  my  dear? 

Mrs.  Hard.  Yes,  I  shall  remember  the 
horsepond  as  long  as  I  live;  I  have  caught 
my  death  in  it.  [To  TONY.]  And  is  it  to 
you,  you  graceless  varlet,  I  owe  all  this? 
I'll  teach  you  to  abuse  your  mother,  I  will. 

Tony.  Ecod,  mother,  all  the  parish  says 
you  have  spoiled  me,  and  so  you  may  take 
the  fruits  on't. 

Mrs.   Hard.     I'll  spoil  you,  I  will. 

[Follows  him  off   the  stage.     Exit. 

Hard.  There's  morality,  however,  in  his 
reply.  [Exit. 


Enter  HASTINGS  and  Miss  NEVILLE. 
Hastings.     My    dear    Constance,     why 


will 


you  deliberate  thus?  If  we  delay  a  moment, 
all  is  lost  for  ever.  Pluck  up  a  little  resolu- 
tion, and  we  shall  soon  be  out  of  the  reach 
of  her  malignity. 

Miss  Ncrillc.  I  find  it  impossible.  My 
spirits  are  so  sunk  with  the  agitations  I 
have  suffered,  that  I  am  unable  to  face  any 
new  danger.  Two  or  three  years'  patience 
will  at  last  crown  us  with  happiness. 


Hastings.  Such  a  tedious  delay  is  worse 
than  inconstancy.  Let  us  fly,  my  charmer. 
Let  us  date  our  happiness  from  this  very  mo- 


ACT  V,  Sc.  III. 


SHE  STOOPS  TO  CONQUER 


nu-iit.  Perish  fortune.  Love  and  content  will 
increase  what  we  possess  beyond  a  mon- 
arch's revenue.  Let  me  prevail. 

Miss  Nerille.  No,  Mr.  Hastings,  no. 
Prudence  once  more  comes  to  my  relief,  and 
I  will  obey  its  dictates.  In  the  moment  of 
passion,  fortune  may  be  despised,  but  it  ever 
produces  a  lasting  repentance.  I'm  resolved 
to  apply  to  Mr.  Hardcastle's  compassion  and 
justice  for  redress. 

Hastings.  But  though  he  had  the  will,  he 
has  not  the  power  to  relieve  you. 

Miss  Neville.  But  he  has  influence,  and 
upon  that  I  am  resolved  to  rely. 

Hastings.  I  have  no  hopes.  But  since  you 
persist,  I  must  reluctantly  obey  you. 

{Exeunt. 

SCENE  III 

CHANGES   [TO  A   ROOM   AT   MR.   HARDCASTLE'S]. 
Enter  SIR  CHARLES  and  Miss  HARDCASTLE. 

Sir  Charles.  What  a  situation  am  I  in! 
If  what  you  say  appears,  I  shall  then  find 
a  guilty  son.  If  what  he  says  be  true,  I  shall 
then  lose  one  that,  of  all  others,  I  most 
wished  for  a  daughter. 

Miss  Hard.  I  am  proud  of  your  approba- 
tion; and,  to  show  I  merit  it,  if  you  place 
yourselves  as  I  directed,  you  shall  hear  his 
explicit  declaration.  But  he  comes. 

Sir  Charles.  I'll  to  your  father,  and  keep 
him  to  the  appointment.  {Exit  SIR  CHARLES. 

Enter    MARLOW. 

Marlow.  Though  prepare "  for  setting  out, 
I  come  once  more  to  take  leave,  nor  did  I, 
till  this  moment,  know  the  pain  I  feel  in 
the  separation. 

Miss  Hard.  {In  her  own  natural  manner]. 
I  believe  these  sufferings  cannot  be  very 
great,  sir,  which  you  can  so  easily  remove. 
A  day  or  two  longer,  perhaps,  might  lessen 
your  uneasiness,  by  showing  the  little  value 
of  what  you  think  proper  to  regret. 

Marlow  {aside].  This  girl  every  moment 
improves  upon  me.  {To  her.]  It  must  not 
be,  madam.  I  have  already  trifled  too  long 
with  my  heart.  My  very  pride  begins  to 
submit  to  my  passion.  The  disparity  of  edu- 
cation and  fortune,  the  anger  of  a  parent,  and 
the  contempt  of  my  equals,  begin  to  lose 
their  weight;  and  nothing  can  restore  me  to 
myself  but  this  painful  effort  of  resolution. 

Miss  Hard.  Then  go,  sir.  I'll  urge  noth- 
ing more  to  detain  you.  Though  my  family 
be  as  good  as  hers  you  came  down  to  visit, 
and  my  education,  I  hope,  not  inferior,  what 
are  these  advantages  without  equal  affluence  ? 
I  must  remain  contented  with  the  slight  ap- 
probation of  imputed  merit;  I  must  have  only 
the  mockery  of  your  addresses,  while  all  your 
serious  aims  are  fixed  on  fortune. 


Enter    HARDCASTLE     and     SIR     CHARLES    from 
behind. 

Sir  Charles.     Here,  behind  this  screen. 

Hard.  Ay,  ay,  make  no  noise.  I'll  engage 
my  Kate  covers  him  with  confusion  at  last. 

Marlow.  By  heavens,  madam,  fortune  was 
ever  my  smallest  consideration.  Your  beauty 
at  first  caught  my  eye;  for  who  could  see  that 
without  emotion?  But  every  moment  that  I 
converse  with  you,  steals  in  some  new 
grace,  heightens  the  picture,  and  gives  it 
stronger  expression.  What  at  first  seemed 
rustic  plainness,  now  appears  refined  sim- 
plicity. What  seemed  forward  assurance, 
now  strikes  me  as  the  result  of  courageous 
innocence,  and  conscious  virtue. 

Sir  Charles.  What  can  it  mean?  He 
amazes  me! 

Hard.     I  told  you  how  it  would  be.    Hush! 

Marlow.  I  am  now  determined  to  stay, 
madam,  and  I  have  too  good  an  opinion  of 
my  father's  discernment,  when  he  sees  you, 
to  doubt  his  approbation. 

Miss  Hard.  No,  Mr.  Marlow,  I  will  not, 
cannot  detain  you.  Do  you  think  I  could 
suffer  a  connexion,  in  which  there  is  the 
smallest  room  for  repentance?  Do  you  think 
I  would  take  the  mean  advantage  of  a  tran- 
sient passion,  to  load  you  with  confusion? 
Do  you  think  I  could  ever  relish  that  happi- 
ness, which  was  acquired  by  lessening  yours  ! 

Marlow.  By  all  that's  good,  I  can  have 
no  happiness  but  what's  in  your  power  to 
grant  me.  Nor  shall  I  ever  feel  repentance, 
but  in  not  having  seen  your  merits  before. 
I  will  stay,  even  contrary  to  your  wishes; 
and  though  you  should  persist  to  shun  me, 
I  will  make  my  respectful  assiduities  atone 
for  the  levity  of  my  past  conduct. 

Miss  Hard.  Sir,  I  must  entreat  you'll  de- 
sist. As  our  acquaintance  began,  so  let  it 
end,  in  indifference.  I  might  have  given  an 
hour  or  two  to  levity;  but,  seriously,  Mr. 
Marlow,  do  you  think  I  could  ever  submit  to 
a  connection,  where  7  must  appear  mercen- 
ary, and  you  imprudent?  Do  you  think  I 
could  ever  catch  at  the  confident  addresses 
of  a  secure  admirer? 


Marlow 
security? 


{Kneeling].    Does     this     look     like 
Does    this    look    like    confidence? 


No,  madam,  every  moment  that  shows  me 
your  merit,  only  serves  to  increase  my  diffi- 
dence and  confusion.  Here  let  me  con- 
tinue - 

Sir  Charles.  I  can  hold  it  no  longer. 
Charles,  Charles,  how  hast  thou  deceived 
me!  Is  this  your  indifference,  your  unin- 
teresting conversation  ! 

Hard.  Your  cold  contempt!  your  formal 
interview!  What  have  you  to  say  now? 

Marlow.  That  I'm  all  amazement!  What 
can  it  mean? 

Hard.     It    means    that    you    can    say    and 


350 


SHE  STOOPS  TO  CONQUER 


ACT  V,  Sc.  III. 


unsay  thing's  at  pleasure.  That  you  can  ad- 
dress a  lady  in  private,  and  deny  it  in  public; 
that  you  have  one  story  for  us,  and  another 
for  my  daughter! 

Mar  low.  Daughter! — this  lady  your  daugh- 
ter! 

Hard.  Yes,  sir,  my  only  daughter.  My 
Kate,  whose  else  should  she  be? 

Marlow.     Oh,  the  devil! 

Miss  Hard.  Yes,  sir,  that  very  identical  tall 
squinting  lady  you  were  pleased  to  take  me 
for.  [Curtseying.]  She  that  you  addressed  as 
the  mild,  modest,  sentimental  man  of  gravity, 
and  the  bold,  forward,  agreeable  Rattle  of 
the  Ladies'  Club:  ha,  ha,  ha! 

Marlow.  Zounds,  there's  no  bearing  this; 
it's  worse  than  death! 

Miss  Hard.  In  which  of  your  characters, 
sir,  will  you  give  us  leave  to  address  you  ? 
As  the  faltering  gentleman,  with  looks  on 
the  ground,  that  speaks  just  to  be  heard,  and 
hates  hypocrisy:  or  the  loud  confident  crea- 
ture, that  keeps  it  up  with  Mrs.  Mantrap,  and 
old  Miss  Biddy  Buckskin,  till  three  in  the 
morning;  ha,  ha,  ha! 

•Marlow.     O,    curse    on    my    noisy    head.      I 


never  attempted   to  be  impudent  yet,  that  I 
was  not  taken  down.     I  must  be  gone. 

Hard.  By  the  hand  of  my  body,  but  you 
shall  not.  I  see  it  was  all  a  mistake,  and 
I  am  rejoiced  to  find  it.  You  shall  not,  sir, 
I  tell  you.  I  know  she'll  forgive  you.  Won't 
you  forgive  him,  Kate?  We'll  all  forgive 
you.  Take  courage,  man. 

{.They    retire,    site    tormenting    hint    to    the 
back   scene. 

Enter  MRS.  HARDCASTLE,  TONY. 

Mrs.  Hard.  So,  so,  they're  gone  off.  Let 
them  go,  I  care  not. 

Hard.     Who   gone? 

Mrs.  Hard.  My  dutiful  niece  and  her 
gentleman,  Mr.  Hastings,  from  town.  He 
who  came  down  with  our  modest  visitor,  here. 

Sir  Charles.  Who,  my  honest  George 
Hastings?  As  worthy  a  fellow  as  lives,  and 
the  girl  could  not  have  made  a  more  prudent 
choice. 

Hard.  Then,  by  the  hand  of  my  body,  I'm 
proud  of  the  connection. 

Mrs.  Hard.  Well,  if  he  has  taken  away 
the  lady,  he  has  not  taken  her  fortune,  that 
remains  in  this  family  to  console  us  for  her 
loss. 

Hard.  Sure,  Dorothy,  you  would  not  be 
so  mercenary  ? 

Mrs.  Hard.  Ay,  that's  my  affair,  not  yours. 
But  you  know,  if  your  son,  when  of  age,  re- 
fuses to  marry  his  cousin,  her  whole  for- 
tune is  then  at  her  own  disposal. 

Hard.  Ah,  but  he's  not  of  age,  and  she 
has  not  thought  proper  to  wait  for  his  re- 
fusal. 


Enter  HASTINGS  and  Miss  NEVILLE. 

Mrs.  Hard,  [aside].  What!  returned  so 
soon?  I  begin  not  to  like  it. 

Hastings  [to  HARDCASTLE].  For  my  late  at- 
tempt to  fly  off  with  your  niece,  let  my 
present  confusion  be  my  punishment.  We 
are  now  come  back,  to  appeal  from  your 
justice  to  your  humanity.  By  her  father's 
consent,  I  first  paid  her  my  addresses,  and 
our  passions  were  first  founded  in  duty. 

Miss  Neville.  Since  his  death,  I  have  been 
obliged  to  stoop  to  dissimulation  to  avoid 
oppression.  In  an  hour  of  levity,  1  was  ready 
even  to  give  up  my  fortune  to  secure  my 
choice.  But  I'm  now  recovered  from  the 
delusion,  and  hope  from  your  tenderness 
what  is  denied  me  from  a  nearer  connection. 

Mrs.  Hard.  Pshaw,  pshaw!  this  is  all  but 
the  whining  end  of  a  modern  novel. 

Hard.  Be  it  what  it  will,  I'm  glad  they're 
come  back  to  reclaim  their  due.  Come 
hither,  Tony,  boy.  Do  you  refuse  this  lady's 
hand  whom  I  now  offer  you? 


What   signifies   my   refusing? 
can't    refuse  •  her    till    I'm    of 


You 
age, 


Tony. 
know  I 
father. 

Hard.  While  I  thought  concealing  your 
age,  boy,  was  likely  to  conduce  to  your 
improvement,  I  concurred  with  your  moth- 
er's desire  to  keep  it  secret.  But  since  I 
find  she  turns  it  to  a  wrong  use,  I  must  now 
declare,  you  have  been  of  age  these  three 
months. 

Tony.     Of  age!     Am  I  of  age,  father? 

Hard.     Above    three   months. 

Tony.  Then  you'll  see  the  first  use  I'll 
make  of  my  liberty.  [Taking  Miss  NEVILLE'S 
hand.}  Witness  all  men  by  these  presents, 
that  I,  Anthony  Lumpkin,  Esquire,  of  BLANK 
place,  refuse  you,  Constantia  Neville,  spin- 
ster, of  no  place  at  all,  for  my  true  and 
lawful  wife.  So  Constance  Neville  may 
marry  whom  she  pleases,  and  Tony  Lumpkin 
is  his  own  man  again! 

Sir  Charles.     O  brave  'Squire! 

Hastings.     My    worthy    friend! 

Mrs.   Hard.     My  undutiful  offspring! 

Marlow.  Joy,  my  dear  George,  I  give  you 
joy,  sincerely.  And  could  I  prevail  upon  my 
little  tyrant  here  to  be  less  arbitrary,  I 
should  be  the  happiest  man  alive,  if  you 
would  return  me  the  favor. 

Hastings  [to  Miss  HARDCASTLE].  Come, 
madam,  you  are  now  driven  to  the  very  last 
scene  of  all  your  contrivances.  I  know  you 
like  him,  I'm  sure  he  loves  you,  and  you 
must  and  shall  have  him. 

Hard.  [Joining  their  hands].  And  I  say  so, 
too.  And  Mr.  Marlow,  if  she  makes  as  good 
a  wife  as  she  has  a  daughter,  I  don't  believe 
you'll  ever  repent  your  bargain.  So  now  to 
supper,  to-morrow  we  shall  gather  all  the 
poor  of  the  parish  about  us,  and  the  Mis- 

351 


EPILOGUES 


SHE  STOOPS  TO  CONQUER 


takes  of   the  Night   shall  be  crowned  with   a     Ogles   and   leers   with   artificial   skill, 
merry  morning;  so  boy,  take  her;  and  as  you    Till  having  lost  in  age  the  power  to  kill, 
have  been  mistaken  in  the  mistress,  my  wish  j  She    sits    all    night    at    cards,    and    ogles    at 

spadille. 

Such,    through    our    lives,    the    eventful    his- 
tory— 
The  fifth  and   last  act   still  remains  for  me. 


is,   that   you  may   never  be  mistaken   in   the 
wife. 


EPILOGUE 

BY  DR.  GOLDSMITH. 

Well,  having  stooped  to  conquer  with  success, 
And  gained  a  husband  without  aid  from  dress, 
Still  as   a  barmaid,   I   could  wish   it  too, 
As  I  have  conquered  him  to  conquer  you: 
And  let  me  say,  for  all  your  resolution, 
That  pretty  barmaids  have  done  execution. 
Our    life    is   all   a    play,    composed   to   please, 
"  We  have  our  exits  and  our  entrances." 
The  first  act  shows  the  simple  country  maid, 
Harmless  and  young,  of  everything  afraid; 
Blushes    when    hired,    and    with    unmeaning 

action, 

/   hopes  as  how  to  girc  you  satisfaction. 
Her  second   act  displays  a  livelier  scene, — 
Th'    unblushing    barmaid    of    a    country    inn, 
Who    whisks    about    the    house,    at    market 

caters, 
Talks  loud,  coquets  the  guests,  and  scolds  the 

waiters. 
Next  the  scene  shifts  to  town,  and  there  she 

soars, 

The  chop-house  toast  of  ogling  connoisseurs. 
On   'Squires  and  Cits  she  there  displays  her 

arts, 
And     on     the     gridiron     broils     her     lovers' 

hearts — 

And  as  she  smiles,  her  triumphs  to  complete, 
Even  Common  Councilmen  forget  to  eat. 
The    fourth    act    shows    her    wedded    to    the 

'Squire, 

And  madam  now  begins  to  hold  it  higher; 
Pretends  to  taste,  at  Operas  cries   caro, 
And  quits  her  Nancy  Dawson,   for  Che  Faro. 
Doats  upon  dancing,  and  in  all  her  pride, 
Swims  round  the  room,  the  Heinel  of  Cheap- 
side: 


The  barmaid  now  for  your  protection  prays, 
Turns  female  barrister,  and  pleads  for  Bayes. 


EPILOGUE 

To  be  spoken  in  the  character  of  Tony  Lumpkin. 
BY  J.  CRADOCK,  ESQ. 

Well— now     all's     ended— and     my     comrades 

gone, 

Pray    what   becomes    of    mother's   nonly   son? 
A  hopeful  blade!— in  town  I'll  fix  my  station, 
And  try  to  make  a  bluster  in  the  nation. 
As  for  my  cousin  Neville,  I  renounce  her, 
Off— in   a   crack — I'll   carry   big   Bet   Bouncer. 
Why  should  not  I  in  the  great  world  appear? 
I  soon  shall  have  a  thousand  pounds  a  year; 
No  matter  what  a  man  may  here  inherit, 
In    London — 'gad,    they've    some    regard    for 

spirit. 

I  see  the  horses  prancing  up  the  streets, 
And  big  Bet  Bouncer  bobs   to  all  she  meets; 
Then    hoikes    to    jiggs    and    pastimes     ev'ry 

night — 

Not  to  the  plays— they   say   it  a'n't  polite, 
To  Sadler's-Wells  perhaps,  or  Operas  go, 
And    once    by    chance,    to    the    roratorio. 
Thus  here  and  there,  for  ever  up  and  down, 
We'll  set  the  fashions  too,  to  half  the  town; 
And  then  at  auctions — money  ne'er  regard, 
Buy   pictures    like    the    great,    ten    pounds    a 

yard: 
Zounds,  we  shall  make  these  London  gentry 

say, 
We  know  what's  damned  genteel,  as  well  as 

they. 


352 


RICHARD    BRINSLEY    SHERIDAN 


THE  RIVALS  AND  THE   SCHOOL  FOR 
SCANDAL 


SHERIDAN'S  great  years  may  be  divided  naturally  into  two  periods,  one 
from  1774  to  1779,  when  he  wrote  his  plays,  the  other  from  1780  to  1812, 
when  he  sat  in  the  House  of  Commons.  In  each  period  he  delighted  and 
astonished  his  contemporaries,  in  one  by  his  comedies,  which  were  a  bril- 
liant departure  from  the  dull  moralizing  of  the  sentimental  drama,  in  the 
other  by  his  orations,  which  in  their  immediate  effect  upon  his  highly  culti- 
vated audiences  are  unequalled  in  the  history  of  modern  eloquence.  The 
pity  of  his  life  is  that  his  latter  years  should  furnish  a  miserable  anti- 
climax of  domestic  unhappiness,  business  misfortune,  and  public  neglect. 

Sheridan's  ancestry  does  in  some  measure  account  for  his  genius.  His 
grandfather,  Rev.  Thomas  Sheridan,  eccentric,  learned,  witty,  the  friend  of 
Swift,  and  his  father,  the  actor  Thomas  Sheridan,  who  as  teacher  of  elocu- 
tion had  fashionable  London  at  his  feet,  were  men  of  very  considerable 
intellectual  ability.  His  mother  was  even  more  remarkable ;  she  was  the 
author  of  a  novel  that  was  commended  by  Dr.  Johnson  and  Charles  Fox, 
as  well  as  of  three  comedies,  one  of  which  furnished  her  son  witTTideas 
for  his  own  plays.  This  son,  Richard  Brinsley,  was  born  in  Dublin  in  1751, 
and  at  the  age  of  eleven  entered  the  great  public  school  of  Harrow,  where 
he  remained  for  seven  years.  Then  instead  of  going  to  the  university  he 
studied  oratory  with  his  father  in  London  for  two  years  till  the  family 
moved  to  Bath. 

Bath  was  then  at  the  height  of  its  glory  as  the  pleasure  city  of  Eng- 
land, and  it  became  the  youthful  Sheridan's  training  school  more  effectually 
than  either  Oxford  or  Cambridge  could  have  been.  Here  he  observed  life 
in  all  its  cosmopolitan  frivolity,  studied  those  varied  types  of  humanity  that 
gather  in  fashionable  resorts,  and,  stored  up  in  his  mind  the  raw  material 
out  of  which  he  later  made  his  wonderful  comedies.  Here,  too,  he  came 
into  public  prominence  as  the  protector  and  suitor  of  the  gifted  and  beau- 
tiful singer,  Elizabeth  Linley,  who,  as  Frances  Burney  said,  had  engrossed 
"  all  eyes,  ears,  hearts."  To  escape  the  persistent  and  distasteful  addresses 
of  a  married  man  named  Matthews  she  determined  to  flee  to  a  convent  in 

353 


THE  RIVALS  AND  THE  SCHOOL  FOR  SCANDAL 

France  and  accepted  the  glad  services  of  Sheridan  as  her  escort.  So  after 
a  stormy  passage  to  Dunkirk  they  proceeded  to  Calais,  where,  it  seems, 
they  were  married,  and  thence  to  Lille.  Here  Miss  Linley  entered  a  con- 
vent, intending  to  remain  "  either  till  Sheridan  came  of  age,  or  till  he  was 
in  a  position  to  support  a  wife."  But  Mr.  Linley,  the  father,  appeared  and 
changed  all  that.  He  took  the  youthful  lovers  back  with  him  to  London, 
but  at  the  end  of  a  year,  in  1773,  he  was  induced  to  give  his  consent  to  their 
marriage  according  to  the  rites  of  the  English  Church,  since  their  French 
"  marriage  "  was  not  binding.  Sheridan  meanwhile  fought  two  duels  with 
^the  obnoxious  Matthews  and  succeeded  in  driving  him  at  least  for  a  time 
from  Bath. 

As  a  means  of  support  Sheridan  now  turned  to  the  theatre,  and  by 
the  end  of  1774  he  was  able  to  announce  the  appearance  of  his  first  play, 
The  Rivals,  which  was  actually  presented  at  Covent  Garden  Theatre  Janu- 
ary 17,  1775.  High  hopes  were,  however,  disappointed.  The  house  was 
crowded,  but  a  hostile  claque  hissed  disapproval ;  the  excessive  length  of 
the  play,  the  extravagance  of  some  of  the  conceits,  and  the  execrable  acting 
of  certain  performers,  especially  Lee,  who  had  the  part  of  Sir  Lucius 
O'Trigger,  justified  the  unqualified  damning  of  the  play.  Sheridan  at  once 
withdrew  and  revised  it,  and  in  ten  days  he  again  offered  it  to  the  public 
with  the  gratifying  result  that  it  "was  received  with  the  warmest  bursts 
of  approbation  by  a  crowded  and  apparently  impartial  audience."  As  a 
thank-offering  to  the  actor  Clinch,  who  in  the  later  performances  had 
displaced  the  luckless  Lee,  Sheridan  wrote  a  skit  in  forty-eight  hours 
called  St.  Patrick's  Day  or  The  Scheming  Lieutenant.  It  was  presented 
at  Covent  Garden  on  May  2,  1775,  and  five  more  times  that  season.  It 
is  so  slight  that  it  merely  calls  for  mention.  In  contrast  to  this  plaything 
Sheridan's  next  piece,  the  comic  opera  The  Duenna,  revealed  his  best  skill 
and  won  instantaneous  and  astonishing  success.  Mr.  Linley,  Sheridan's 
father-in-law  and  an  accomplished  musician,  wrote  the  score,  and  the 
author  and  the  composer  worked  so  well  together  that,  as  Sichel  says, 
"the  music  fitted  it  like  a  glove."  It  was  perfomed  on  November  21,  1775, 
and  ran  for  seventy-five  nights.  To-day  only  the  lyrics  remain  to  please ; 
the  opera  is  never  acted  and  the  wit  has  largely  faded  away.  In  recognition 
of  Sheridan's  literary  merit  Dr.  Johnson  had  him  elected  (1777)  to  the 
Literary  Club,  remarking  that  "  he  who  has  written  the  two  best  comedies 
of  his  age  [The  Rivals  and  The  Duenna]  is  surely  a  considerable  man." 

"  In~i77fLon  Garrick's  retirement  from  the  managership  of  Drury  Lane 
Theatre  Sheridan  with  two  others  acquired  Garrick's  half  interest,  and 
Sheridan  was  appointed  manager  in  Garrick's  stead.  He  worked  over  and 
expurgated  Vanbrugh's  The  Relapse  and  under  the  title  of  The  Trip  to 
Scarborough  he  brought  it  out  in  his  own  theatre  on  February  24,  1777.  It 
ran  through  ninety-nine  performances.  On  May  8  of  the  same  year  he 
produced  the  greatest  of  his  comedies,  The  School  for  Scandal,  which  ran 

354 


THE  RIVALS  AND  THE  SCHOOL  FOR  SCANDAL 

for  twenty  nights  that  season  and  for  sixty-five  the  next.  His  next  play, 
The  Critic, ,  .ajmrlesque,  like  Buckingham's  The  Rehearsal  and  Fielding's 
ToYff  Thumb,  scored  another  triumph  in  1779.  Then  when  the  theatre  seemed 
to  be  opening"  to  him  a  success  unparalleled  in  his  century,  he  stopped. 
Parliament  had  a  greater  lure;  he  preferred  to  be  himself  an  actor  on  the 
stage  of  national  political  life. 

So  he  entered  the  House  of  Commons  in  1780  and  remained  there  till, 
overwhelmed  with  debt,  he  was  unable  to  meet  election  expenses  in  i8ij3_and 
was  forced  to  turn  his  back  forever  upon  St.  Stephens.     His  rise  to  fame 
was  rapid  and  his  oratorical  spell  was  soon  upon  the  House.     He  was  at  the 
zenith  of  his   glory   in   1787-88   when  he   delivered   his   two  great  speeches 
against  Hastings,  one  known  as  the  "  Begum  speech,"  the  other  the  accusation 
at  the  trial! Contemporary  evidence  points  to  the  stupendous  e'ffect  which 
these  speeches  had  upon  the  listeners,  who  represented  the  wealth,  the  no- 
bility, and  the  brains  of  England,  an  effect  which  we  to-day  are  unable  to 
feel,  so  much  has  the  power  and  personality  of  the  orator  vanished  from  the 
written  words.     His  greatest  rival  Burke,  who  lives  to-day  in  his  orations  , 
as  Sheridan  does  not,  said  that  the  Begum  speech  was  ''the-most  astonishing  i 
effort  of  eloquence,  argument]  and  wit  united",  of  which  there  is  any  record  1 
or  tradition." 

While  Sheridan  was  thus  winning  fame  in  the  House,  his  affairs  in 
Drury  Lane  were  suffering  from  neglect  and  mismanagement.  The  theatre 
had  to  be  repaired  and  enlarged  at  great  expense ;  the  costly  production  of 
Ireland's  Shaksperean  forgery  Vortigern  and  Rowena  (1796),  by  which 
Sheridan  was  completely  taken  in,  was  an  utter  failure.  Two  adaptations 
from  the  GerlnarTof  Rotzebue,  The  Strangers  (1798)  and  Pizarro  (1799), 
stayed  temporarily  the  coming  of  disaster,  but  when  in  1809  the  theatre 
was  burned,  Sheridan  knew  that  failure  was  complete.  Meanwhile  his 
wife  had  died  ( 1792)7 affd  Vsecond  wife  married  in  1795  did  not  bring  him 
happiness  and  did  increase  his  financial  worries.  His  ill-starred  friendship 
with  the  disreputable  Prince"  of  ~Wates"tatignt  him  all  too  well  not  to  put 
his  trust  in  princes.  The  closing  years  of  his  life  were  filled  with  suffering 
from  disease  and  persecution  by  creditors,  so  that  while  he  lay  dying,  a 
sheriff  was  in^  attendance.  The  end  came  in  1816  and  then  the  nation 
characteristically  made  haste  to  give  him  a  magnificent  funeral  in  West- 
minster Abbey,  where  fittingly  he  lies  in  the  Poets'  Corner. 

By  the  time  the  eighteenth  century  was  entering  upon  its  last  quarter 
the  sentimental  drama  had  about  run  its  course.  Goldsmith  in  The  Good- 
natured  Man  (1768)  and  She  Stoops  to  Conquer  (17/3)  and  Sheridan  in 
Thet  Rivals  (1774)  forswore  allegiance  to 

The  goddess  of  the  woful  countenance — 
The  Sentimental  Muse. 

355 


THE  RIVALS  AND  THE  SCHOOL  FOR  SCANDAL 

Comedy  became  once  more,  in  Meredith's  phrase,  "the  fountain  of  sound 
sense,  not  the  less  perfectly  sound  because  of  its  sparkle."  The  influence 
of  the  decaying  fashion  persists,  however,  in  the  sentimental  nature  of 
young  Honeywood  in  The  Good-Natured  Man  as  it  does  in  the  somewhat 
similar  character  of  Charles  Surface  and  in  the  hypocritical  moralizing  of 
Joseph  Surface  in  The  School  for  Scandal,  but  it  has  pretty  well  disappeared 
in  She  Stoops  to  Conquer.  The  sub-plot  of  The  Rivals  is  wholly  sentimental 
in  appearance,  but  it  is  so  manipulated  that  it  becomes  the  object_pf  mild 
satire  ra.ther_than  of  tearful  sympathy;  it  is  just  saved  from  being  actual 
burlesque.  Actual  buTleSqtte  comes  in  The  Critic,  as  when  Sneer  in  speaking 
of  the  sentimental  play  says :  "  that's  a  genteel  comedy,  not  a  translation — 
only  taken  from  the  French :  it  is  written  in  a  style  which  they  have  lately 
tried  to  run  down ;  the  true  sentimental,  and  nothing  ridiculous  in  it  from  the 
beginning  to  the  end";  and  again  in  all  seriousness  he  is  made  to  say: 
"  the  theatre,  in  proper  hands,  might  certainly  be  made  the  school  of 
morality ;  but  now,  I  am  sorry  to  say  it,  people  seem  to  go  there  principally 
,,for  their  entertainment."  The  sentimentaLcO-medy  was  dead. 

Yet  neither  Goldsmith  nor  Sheridan  struck  out  a  new  or  original  path. 
They  but  adapted  to  new  conditions  the  comedy  of  the  Restoration,  es- 
pecially that  of  Congreve  and  Farquhar;  they  followed  Steele  in  his  moral 
reaction  from  the  indecency  of  the  earlier  plays  without  sinking  into  moral- 
izing and  dulness.  It  is  comparatively  easy  to  trace  resemblances  in  situation 
and  characterization  between  the  plays  of  Sheridan  and  those  of  his  predeces- 
sors. Thus  in  The  Rivals  critics  have  traced  the  pedigree  of  Mrs.  Malaprop 
from  Mrs.  Tryfort  in  the  elder  Mrs.  Sheridan's  A  Journey  to  Bath  to 
Dogberry  in  Much  Ado  and  Dame  Quickly  in  Henry  IV ,  they  have  shown 
the  marked  family  resemblance  of  Lydia  Languish  to  Biddy  Tipkin  in 
Steele's  The  Tender  Husband;  they  might  also  show  the  similarity  in  con- 
duct and  manner  of  Captain  Absolute  and  Fag  to  Bevil  Jr.  and  Tom  in 
Steele's  Conscious  Lovers  and  of  Lucy  to  Phillis  in  the  same  play ;  they 
might  point  out  that  as  Lydia  will  lose  most  of  her  fortune  if  she  mar- 
ries without  her  aunt's  consent,  so  Millamant  in  Congreve's  The  Way  of 
the  World  runs  a  similar  risk  under  similar  conditions.  Likewise  in 
The  School  originals  have  been  found  -for  the  Surface  brothers  in  Blifil 
and  Tom  Jones  in  Fielding's  novel  as  well  as  in  nearly  all  the  hypocrites 
and  their  foils  in  earlier  literature,  for  Sir  Peter  and  Lady  Teazle  in  Mr. 
and  Mrs.  Pinchwife  in  Wycherley's  The  Country  Wife,  and  for  the  scandal 
scenes  in  the  cabal  nights  in  Congreve's  The  Way  of  the  World  All  this 
and  more  Sheridan  anticipated  when  he  said :  "  Faded  ideas  float  in  the  fancy 
like  half-forgotten  dreams;  and  the  imagination  in  its  fullest  enjoyments 
becomes  suspicious  of  its  offspring,  and  doubts  whether  it  has  created  or 
adopted." 

Yet  there  was  nothing  of  the  mere  copyist  about  Sheridan,  His  servants, 
for  instance,  talk  and  act  more  cleverly  than  is  natural  to  those  in  their 

356 


THE  RIVALS  AND  THE  SCHOOL  FOR  SCANDAL 

station — so  do  their  counterparts  in  Restoration  comedy,  who  in  turn  are 
modelled  on  the  servants  in  Latin  drama, — but  they  are  all  vital  and  fit  per- 
fectly into  their  environment.  The  dialogue  is  witty,  but  it  is  as  distinctly 
Sheridan's  as  the  dialogue  of  Mirabell  and  Millamant  is  Congreve's.  We 
recognize  its  flavor  at  once  in  the  scenes  between  Acres  and  Sir  Lucius,  in 
those  between  Sir  Peter  and  Lady  Teazle,  and  in  the  scandal  scenes.  In  his 
manipulation  of  plot,  too,  he  shows  extraordinary  skill.  Thus  he  avoids 
the  intricacy  that  makes  Congreve's  plays  hard  to  follow.  In  both  The  Way 
of  the  World  and  The  Rivals  the  object  of  the  hero  is  to  marry  the  heroine 
without  losing  the  money  she  will  forfeit  if  she  marries  without  her  aunt's 
consent.  Congreve  invents  an  elaborate  scheme  to  win  the  aunt's  consent, 
whereas  Sheridan  subordinates  the  matter  of  the  aunt's  approval  to  a 
sort  of  merry  by-play  as  of  less  importance  than  the  swift  and  happy 
union  of  the  lovers. 

The  interest  of  The  Rivals  is  primarily  theatrical.  .The  play  has  success- 
fully held  the  stage  from  its  second  performance  with  Quick  as  Acres 
to  its  modern  presentation  with  Joseph  Jefferson  in  the  same  role.  The 
sentimental  sub-plot  is  usually  excised,  since  the~~Interesf  in  what  was 
due  only  to  the  time  has  died  with  the  time.  The  connection  of  the  sub-plot 
with  the  main  plot  is,  moreover,  so  slight  that  no  loss  is  experienced  as 
a  result  of  the  amputation.  Even  though  Faulkland's  fine-spun  jealousies 
are  the  object  of  mild  ridicule  and  though  he  serves  as  a  foil  to  the 
romantic  Lydia,  the  audience  which  has  to  listen  to  the  utterance  of  his 
self-torturing  suspicions  will  inevitably  be  bored.  But_irL.  the  main_  plot 
there  is  not  a  dull  moment.  The  audience  from  the  first  is  let  into  the 
Absolute-Beverley  secret  and  it  soon  learns  of  the  trick  that  is  being  played 
on  Mrs.  Malaprop  and  Sir  Lucius  O'Trigger.  Rejoicing  in  its  superior 
knowledge  it  is  delighted  in  seeing  how  the  mystified  characters  act  in  the 
complications  which  they  could  not  foresee.  So  we  have  the  highly  comic 
scenes  of  Acres's  arousing  Faulkland's  jealousy  about  Julia,  of  Sir  Anthony's 
proposing  a  marriage  to  his  son,  each  working  at  cross  purposes,  of 
Lucy's  duplicities,  of  Captain  Absolute's  appeasing  his  father,  of  his  posing 
as  Beverley  and  thus  deceiving  Mrs.  Malaprop  and  Lydia,  and  of  his  own 
discomfiture  at  the  revelation  of  his  pose,  of  Acres's  challenging  Beverley, 
and  of  the  final  clearing  up  on  the  duelling  field.  We  are  tickled  when 
we  see  some  persons  who  think  they  are  controlling  events  caught  by 
their  own  cleverness,  and  others  who  seem  to  be  the  victims  of  circum- 
stance blundering  into  good  luck;  we  laugh  when  a  person  for  whom  a 
trap  is  laid  walks  promptly  into  it,  or  when  two  characters  wholly  mis- 
understand each  other  and  appear  highly  ridiculous  to  all  but  themselves; 
and  we  are  vastly  entertained  when  Bob  Acres  tries  to  bolster  up  a  sinking 
courage  and  is  treated  as  if  he  were  a  reckless  fire-eater. 

We  have  likewise  the  same  theatrical  pleasure  in  the  characters  and 
their  words  as  we  have  in  their  actions.  Sir  Anthony's  choleric  temper  will 

357 


THE  RIVALS  AND  THE  SCHOOL  FOR  SCANDAL 

always  amuse  any  audience ;  Bob  Acres  with  his  referential  oaths  and 
his  inflated  courage  is  a  perpetual  joy ;  Mrs.  Malaprop  deranges  her  epitaphs 
to  the  unfailing  delight  of  all  who  hear  aspersions  cast  on  her  parts  of 
speech.  One  is  hurried  along  with  such  speed  in  the  constant  bustle  of  the 
action  and  the  rapid  fire  of  dialogue  that  no  time  remains  to  question 
the  reasonableness  of  the  characters  or  their  speeches.  Apart  from  the  ex- 
citement of  the  theatre  one  realizes  that  Sir  Anthony  is  made  more  precipitate 
than  he  would  be  in  actual  life,  that  Bob  Acres  manages  his  account  of 
Julia's  conduct  too  well  for  the  occasion,  and  that  he  manufactures  oaths 
too  cleverly  for  the  blockhead  he  is,  that  Mrs.  Malaprop  is  so  much  "  the 
queen  of  the  dictionary  "  that  one  sees  design  on  the  part  of  her  creator.  But 
on  the  boards  Sheridan's  cleverness  captures  his  audience  before  it  has 
time  to  protest. 

The  exuberance  of  Sheridan's  humor,  indeed,  carries  his  audience  off 
its  feet.  It  has  all  the  marks  of  youth  and  genius,  "  rather,"  as  Brander 
Matthews  says,  "  the  frank  feeling  for  fun  and  appreciation  of  the  incongru- 
ous .  .  .  than  the  deeper  and  broader  humor  which  we  see  at  its  full  in 
Moliere  and  Shakspere."  One  fully  realizes  that  the  leading  characters  are 
superficially  portrayed — Sir  Anthony,  Mrs.  Malaprop,  and  Acres, — that  Sheri- 
dan does  not  touch  in  this  play  the  springs  of  laughter  that  lie  so  close  to 
the  springs  of  tears.  A  youth  of  twenty-three  could  not  plumb  such  comic 
depths  or  by  means  of  humorous  revelation  make  us  know  a  man  like  Falcon- 
bridge  or  Falstaff.  The  humor  of  The  Rivals  is  more  "  abundantly  laughter- 
compelling"  than  the  extremely  clever  wit  of  The  School.  Indeed  Sheridan 
in  the  earlier  play  seems  more  like  the  youthful  Shakspere  of  the  rollicking 
comedies,  while  in  the  later  play  he  resembles  the  finished  artist  of  the 
Restoration  comedy  who  wrote  The  Way  of  the  World. 

The  present  admirably  articulated  plot  of  The  School  for  Scandal  is 
the  result  of  evolution  through  several  stages.  The  scandal  scenes  go 
back  to  a  short  skit  laid  in  Bath  and  called  The  Slanderers — a  Pump-Room 
'  Scene;  the  Teazle  affair  and  the  intrigue  of  Lady  Sneerwell  to  two  other 
scenes  intended  at  first  for  separate  plays.  "  Solomon  "  and  "  Mrs."  Teazle 
are  much  less  pleasant  people  to  know  than  Sir  Peter  and  his  lady,  and 
their  relation  to  each  other  is  the  familiar  one  of  January  and  May  with 
its  inevitable  quarrellings.  In  the  second  scene  Maria  is  the  orphaned 
niece  and  dependant  of  Lady  Sneerwell,  who  "  hides  a  passion  for  Sir  Charles 
Clerimont  .  .  .  and  tries  to  break  off  the  attachment  between  him  and  Maria 
by  pretending  to  dote  on  Sir  Benjamin  Backbite  (the  villain  of  the  piece) 
and  getting  the  girl  to  write  love-letters  for  her  to  that  precursor  of  Joseph 
Surface"  (Sichel).  Clerimont  is  thus  made  to  believe  Maria  false,  while 
Backbite  makes  love  to  both  women.  Sheridan  indicates  elsewhere  that  the 
finale  was  to  consist  in  Backbite's  mistaking  the  aunt  in  the  dark  for  the 
niece  and  locking  her  in  a  cupboard.  This  incident  is  the  germ  of  the  screen 
scene.  The  Clerrmont  plot  is  sentimental  and  melodramatic,  but  it  was  toned 

358 


THE  RIVALS  AND  THE  SCHOOL  FOR  SCANDAL 

down  when  the  hero  was  changed  from  a  "  romantic  paragon  into  a  good- 
hearted  spendthrift."  These  three  parts  were  now  merged  and  such 
transformations  achieved  as  made  possible  the  present  play.  The  scandal 
scenes  were  developed  into  the  inimitable  opening  scene  which  takes  up  the 
greater  part  of  Act  P,  the  scene  (II,  ii)  in  which  Lady  Teazle  finds  herself 
quite  at  home  in  the  School  for  Scandal  and  Sir  Peter  does  not,  and  that 
(V,  ii)  in  which  is  discussed  with  unholy  enthusiasm  the  affair  of  the  Teazles 
and  Joseph  Surface.  These  form  a  sort  of  background  into  which  the 
main  concerns  of  the  comedy  are  so  skilfully  merged  that  to  separate  them 
would  mean  cutting  the  living  tissue  of  the  piece.  One  cannot  but  notice  the 
advance  over  The  Rivals  in  the  constructive  ingenuity  of  the  plotting.  The 
Clerimont  plot  was  very  considerably  changed  and  improved.  Backbite  be- 
came a  mere  scandal-monger  to  make  way  for  Joseph  Surface.  Clerimont 
was  transformed  into  Charles  Surface,  the  brother  of  Joseph,  both  of  whom 
had  been  wards  of  Sir  Peter  Teazle.  Sir  Rowland  Harpur  was  brought 
into  the  Surface  family  as  the  uncle  of  the  brothers,  was  called  Sir  Oliver 
Surface,  and  was  made  an  old  bachelor  friend  of  Sir  Peter.  Maria  is 
made  independent  of  Lady  Sneerwell.  Moses  was  invented  to  fit  in  with 
the  new  spendthrift  hero  Charles.  Joseph  was  altered  from  a  scheming 
villain  to  a  "  sentimental  knave."  Two  splendid  climactic  scenes  were  in- 
vented, one,  the  auction  of  the  pictures,  to  bring  to  a  head  the  spendthrift  and 
generous  impulses  of  Charles,  the  other,  the  screen  scene,  to  reveal  the 
knavery  of  Joseph  and  straighten  out  the  affairs  of  the  Teazles. 

Such  faults  as  the  play  has  are  hardly  noticed  in  the  performance.  One 
does  not  stop  to  question  the  probability  of  the  off-stage  arrival  in  the  screen 
scene  of  the  fourth  person — in  some  versions,  Lady  Sneerwell — while  Joseph 
is  entertaining  Lady  Teazle,  Sir  Peter,  and  Charles,  or  the  likelihood  that 
he  would  leave  them  alone  while  he  is  disposing  of  this  unwelcome 
visitor.  The  fun  and  the  suspense  shut  out  all  questionings.  Even  the 
speeches  directed  to  the  audience  for  their  information,  the  asides  and 
soliloquies,  the  conveniently  happy  and  unhappy  meetings  at  unexpected 
moments,  the  rather  palpable  business  of  Stanley,  are  not  noticed  in  the 
theatrical  effectiveness  of  the  whole.  Indeed  Sheridan  dares  to  follow  a 
strong  climax  with  what  would  be  flat  anti-climaxes  unless  properly  managed ; 
but  so  deliciously  are  these  scenes  presented  that  the  gossip  which  rages 
about  Lady  Teazle,  the  revelation  of  the  identity  of  Stanley  and  Premium 
with  Sir  Oliver,  and  the  exposure  of  Lady  Sneerwell  but  carry  the  comedy 
to  a  triumphant  close. 

The  character-drawing  of  The  School  is  immensely  superior  to  that 
of  The  Rivals.  Sir  Peter  is  far  more  human  than  Sir  Anthony.  One  realizes 
that  he  has  not  been  created  for  the  sake  of  the  scene  but  that  the  scene 
is  built  naturally  about  him.  He  is  a  fine  old  country  gentleman  who  has 
fallen  in  love  with  a  young,  pretty,  and,  at  heart,  good  girl  whose  head  has 
been  turned  by  her  new  environment.  One  admires  as  well  as  loves  him; 

359 


PROLOGUE  THE  RIVALS 


whereas  one  regards  Sir  Anthony  much  as  one  would  an  exceedingly  funny 
caricature.  Charles  and  Joseph  are  counterpart  presentments  of  the  senti- 
mental type :  one  is  the  hero,  the  reliever  of  the  distressed — so  long  as  the 
distress  is  not  due  to  his  non-payment  of  just  bills, — the  devoted  nephew, 
who  cherishes  one  portrait,  the  reformed  rake,  who  flees  from  folly  to  the 
sanctuary  of  "  Love  and  You,"  as  he  says  to  Maria  in  the  closing  words  of 
the  play ;  the  other  is  the  moralizer,  who  keeps  his  sentiments  for  all  but  his 
friends,  and  in  whom  the  type,  because  it  was  made  utterly  contemptible, 
was  killed  for  dramatic  presentation.  It  is  very  pleasant  to  see  this  representa- 
tive of  a  decadent  society  reduced  to  ineffective  protestation  by  one  whose 
heart  is  yet  sound  though  it  had  approached  the  perilous  verge  that  separates 
moral  life  and  death. 

No  play  in  our  volume  has  had  a  more  brilliant  theatrical  record.  From 
that  memorable  occasion  on  May  8,  1777,  when  "  a  house  packed  with  every 
section  of  society  welcomed  an  epoch-making  play"  (Sichel)  to  the  summer 
of  1909  when  Sir  Beerbohm  Tree  delighted  audiences  in  His  Majesty's 
Theatre,  London,  the  comedy  has  demonstrated  the  permanency  of  Sheridan's 
wit,  which  is  "  steeped  in  the  very  brine  of  conceit  and  sparkles  like  salt 
in  the  fire."  A  gala  performance  at  the  Grand  Opera  House,  Toronto, 
in  the  presence  of  the  Governor-General  of  Canada,  the  Marquis  of  Dufferin, 
the  great  grandson  of  the  author,  was  given  exactly  a  hundred  years  after 
the  premiere.  It  has  for  over  a  century  had  a  brilliant  history  on  the  Ameri- 
can stage.  It  has  also  been  produced  in  Paris,  Vienna,  Venice,  and  in  an 
adapted  form  in  Bombay. 


PROLOGUE 

BY  THE  AUTHOR 

Spoken  by  Mr.  Woodward  and  Mr.  Quick 

Enter  Serjeant  at  Law  and  Attorney. 

Serj.   WHAT'S  here !  a  vile  cramp  hand !    I  cannot  see 
Without  my  spectacles. 

Alt.   [Aside]  He  means  his  fee. 

Nay,  Mr.  Serjeant,  good  sir,  try  again.     [Gives  money. 

Serj.    The  scrawl  improves.     [More]  O  come,  'tis  pretty  plain. 
How's  this?    The  poet's  brief  again!    O  ho! 
Cast,  I  suppose? 

Att.  O  pardon  me — no — no — 

We  found  the  court,  o'erlooking  stricter  laws, 

360 


THE  RIVALS  PROLOGUE 


Indulgent  to  the  merits  of  the  cause; 
By  judges  mild,  unused  to  harsh  denial, 
A  rule  was  granted  for  another  trial. 

Serj.   Then  heark'ee,  Dibble,  did  you  wend  your  pleadings? 
Errors,  no   few,   we've  found  in  our  proceedings. 

Att.    Come,  courage,  sir,  we  did  amend  our  plea, 
Hence  your  new  brief,  and  this  refreshing  fee. 
Some  sons  of  Phoebus  in  the  courts  we  meet. 

Serj.    And  fifty  sons  of  Phoebus  in  the  Fleet  1 

Att.    Nor  pleads  he  worse,  who  with  a  decent  sprig 
Of  bays  adorns  his  legal  waste  of  wig. 

Serj.   Full-bottomed  heroes  thus,  on  signs,  unfurl 
A  leaf  of  laurel  in  a  grove  of  curl! 
Yet  tell  your  client,  that,  in  adverse  days, 
This  wig  is  warmer  than  a  bush  of  bays. 

Att.    Do  you,  then,  sir,  my  client's  place  supply, 

Profuse  of  robe,  and  prodigal  of  tye 

Do  you,  with  all  those  blushing  powers  of  face, 
And   wonted   bashful   hesitating  grace, 
Rise  in  the  court,  and  flourish  on  the  case. 

[Exit. 
Serj.     [Addressing  the  audience]     For  practice,  then,  suppose — this  brief 

will  show   it, — 

Me,   Serjeant  Woodward, — council   for  the  poet. 
Used  to  the  ground — I  know  'tis  hard  to  deal 
With  this  dread  court,  from  whence  there's  no  appeal; 
No  tricking  here,  to  blunt  the  edge  of  law, 
Or,  damned  in  equity — escape  by  flaw: 
But   judgment  given — your  sentence  must   remain; 
— No  writ  of  error  lies — to  Drury-lane! 

Yet,  when  so  kind  you  seem — 'tis  past  dispute 
We  gain  some  favor,  if  not  costs  of  suit. 
No  spleen  is  here!     I  see  no  hoarded  fury; 
— I  think  I  never  faced  a  milder  jury ! 
Sad  else  our  plight ! — where  frowns  are  transportation, 
A  hiss  the  gallows, — and  a  groan,  damnation! 
But  such  the  public  candor,  without  fear 
My  client  waives  all  right  of  challenge  here. 
No  newsman  from  our  session  is  dismissed, 
Nor  wit  nor  critic  we  scratch  off  the  list ; 
His  faults  can  never  hurt  another's  ease, 
His  crime  at  worst — a  bad  attempt  to  please: 
Thus,  all  respecting,  he  appeals  to  all, 
And  by  the  general  voice  will* stand  or  fall. 

361 


PBOLOQUE  THE  RIVALS 


PROLOGUE 

BY    THE   AUTHOR 

Spoken  on  the  tenth  night,  by  Mrs.  Bulkley 

GRANTED  our  cause,  our  suit  and  trial  o'er, 
The  worthy  serjeant  need  appear  no  more : 
In  pleading  I  a  different  client  choose ; 
He  served  the  poet — I  would  serve  the  Muse. 
Like  him,  I'll  try  to  merit  your  applause, 
A  female  counsel  in  a  female's  cause. 

Look  on  this  form, — where  humor,  quaint  and  sly, 
Dimples  the  cheek,  and  points  the  beaming  eye; 
Where  gay  invention  seems  to  boast  its  wiles 
In  amorous  hint,  and  half-triumphant  smiles ; 
While  her  light  mask  or  covers  satire's  strokes, 
Or  hides  the  conscious  blush  her  wit  provokes. 
Look  on  her  well — does  she  seem  formed  to  teach? 
Should  you  expect  to  hear  this  lady  preach? 
Is  grey  experience  suited  to  her  youth? 
Do  solemn  sentiments  become  that  mouth? 
Bid  her  be  grave,  those  lips  should  rebel  prove 
To  every  theme  that  slanders  mirth  or  love. 

Yet,  thus  adorned  with  every  graceful  art 

To  charm  the  fancy  and  yet  reach  the  heart 

Must  we  displace  her,  and  instead  advance 
The  goddess  of  the  woful  countenance— 
The  sentimental  Muse? — Her  emblems  view, 
The  Pilgrim's  Progress,  and  a  sprig  of  rue! 
View  her — too  chaste  to  look  like  flesh  and  blood — 
Primly  portrayed  on  emblematic  wood  ! 
There,  fixed  in  usurpation,  should  she  stand, 
She'll  snatch  the  dagger  from  her  sister's  hand: 
And  having  made  her  votaries  weep  a  flood, 
Good  heaven !  she'll  end  her  comedies  in  blood — 
Bid  Harry  Woodward  break  poor  Dunstal's  crown! 
Imprison  Quick,  and  knock  Ned  Shuter  down; 
While  sad  Barsanti,  weeping  o'er  the  scene, 
Shall  stab  herself — or  poison  Mrs.  Green. 

Such  dire  encroachments  to  prevent  in  time, 
Demands  the  critic's  voice — the  poet's  rhyme. 
Can  our  light  scenes  add  strength    to  holy  laws? 

362 


THE  RIVALS 


ACT  I,  So.  I. 


Such  puny  patronage  but  hurts  the  cause: 
Fair  virtue  scorns  our  feeble  aid  to  ask; 
And  moral  truth  disdains  the  trickster's  mask. 
For  here  their  favorite  stands,  whose  brow  severe 
And  sad,  claims  youth's  respect,  and  pity's  tear; 
Who,  when  oppressed  by  foes  her  worth  creates, 
Can  point  a  poniard  at  the  guilt  she  hates. 


DRAMATIS  PERSONS 


MEN 

SIR  ANTHONY  ABSOLUTE. 

CAPT.    ABSOLUTE. 

FAULKLAND. 

ACRES. 

SIR  Lucius  O'TRIGGER. 

FAG. 

DAVID. 

COACHMAN. 


WOMEN 


MRS.    MALAPROP. 
LYDIA  LANGUISH. 
JULIA. 
LUCY. 


Maid,  Boy,  Servants,  &c. 

SCENE. — BATH. 
TIME  OF  ACTION,  FIVE  HOURS. 


ACT  I 

SCENE  I 
A  Street  in  Bath. 

COACHMAN     crosses     the     stage. — Enter     FAG, 
looking  after  him. 

Fag.  What !  — Thomas !  — Sure,  'tis  he. — 
What !— Thomas  !— Thomas ! 

Coach.  Hay!— Odd's  life!— Mr.  Fag!— give 
us  your  hand,  my  old  fellow-servant. 

Fag.  Excuse  my  glove,  Thomas. — I'm 
devilish  glad  to  see  you,  my  lad.  Why,  my 
prince  of  charioteers,  you  look  as  hearty! — 
but  who  the  deuce  thought  of  seeing  you  in 
Bath! 

Coach.  Sure,  Master,  Madam  Julia,  Harry, 
Mrs.  Kate,  and  the  postilion  be  all  come! 

Fag.     Indeed ! 

Coach.  Aye!  Master  thought  another  fit 
of  the  gout  was  coming  to  make  him  a 
visit: — so  he'd  a  mind  to  gi't  the  slip,  and 
whip !  we  were  all  off  at  an  hour's  warning. 

Fag.  Aye,  aye !  hasty  in  every  thing,  or 
it  would  not  be  Sir  Anthony  Absolute! 

Coach.  But  tell  us,  Mr.  Fag,  how  does 
young  master?  Odd!  Sir  Anthony  will 
stare  to  see  the  Captain  here! 

Fag.     I   do   not   serve   Capt.   Absolute   now. 

Coach.     Why  sure! 


Fag.  At  present  I  am  employed  by  En- 
sign Beverley. 

Coach.  I  doubt,  Mr.  Fag,  you  ha'n't 
changed  for  the  better. 

Fag.     I    have   not   changed,   Thomas. 

Coach.  No!  Why,  didn't  you  say  you 
had  left  young  master? 

Fag.  No. — Well,  honest  Thomas,  I  must 
puzzle  you  no  farther: — briefly  then — Capt. 
Absolute  and  Ensign  Beverley  are  one  and 
the  same  person. 

Coach.     The    devil    they    are! 

Fag.  So  it  is  indeed,  Thomas;  and  the 
Ensign  half  of  my  master  being  on  guard  at 
present — the  Captain  has  nothing  to  do  with 
me. 

Coach.  So,  so!— What,  this  is  some  freak, 
I  warrant ! — Do  tell  us,  Mr.  Fag,  the  mean- 
ing o't — you  know  I  ha'  trusted  you. 

Fag.     You'll   be   secret,   Thomas? 

Coach.     As    a    coach-horse. 

Fag.  Why  then  the  cause  of  all  this  is — 
LOVE,— Love,  Thomas,  who  (as  you  may  get 
read  to  you)  has  been  a  masquerader  ever 
since  the  days  of  Jupiter. 

Coarli.  Aye,  aye; — I  guessed  there  was  a 
lady  in  the  case: — but  pray,  why  does  your 
master  pass  only  for  Ensign/ — Now  if  he  had 
shammed  General,  indeed 

Fag.     Ah!  Thomas,  there  lies  the  mystery 


363 


ACT  I,  Sc.  II. 


THE  RIVALS 


o'  the  matter.— Hark'ee,  Thomas,  my  master 
is  in  love  with  a  lady  of  a  very  singular 
taste:  a  lady  who  likes  him  better  as  a 
half -pay  Ensign  than  if  she  knew  he  was  son 
and  heir  to  Sir  Anthony  Absolute,  a  baronet 
with  three  thousand  a-year! 

Coach.  That  is  an  odd  taste  indeed! — But 
has  she  got  the  stuff,  Mr.  Fag?  Is  she  rich, 
hey? 

Fag.  Rich!— Why,  I  believe  she  owns  half 
the  stocks ! — Z — ds !  Thomas,  she  could  pay 
the  nation  1  debt  as  easy  as  I  could  my 
washerwoman ! — She  has  a  lap-dog  that  eats 
out  of  gold, — she  feeds  her  parrot  with  small 
pearls,— and  all  her  thread-papers  are  made 
of  bank-notes! 

Coach.  Bravo!  — Faith!  — Odd!  I  warrant 
she  has  a  set  of  thousands  at  least.  But 
does  she  draw  kindly  with  the  Captain? 

Fag.     As   fond   as  pigeons. 

Coach.     May  one  hear  her  name? 

Fag.  Miss  Lydia  Languish.— But  there  is 
an  old  tough  aunt  in  the  way; — though,  by 
the  by — she  has  never  seen  my  master — for 
he  got  acquainted  with  Miss  while  on  a 
visit  in  Gloucestershire. 

Coach.  Well— I  wish  they  were  once  har- 
nessed together  in  matrimony.— But  pray, 
Mr.  Fag,  what  kind  of  a  place  is  this  Bath? 
— I  ha'  heard  a  deal  of  it— Here's  a  mort  o' 
merry-making— hey  ? 

Fag.  Pretty  well,  Thomas,  pretty  well — 
'tis  a  good  lounge.  Though  at  present  we 
are,  like  other  great  assemblies,  divided  into 
parties— High -roomians  and  Low-roomians. 
However,  for  my  part,  I  have  resolved  to 
stand  neuter;  and  so  I  told  Bob  Brush  at 
our  last  committee. 

I',.,.;,-/-.     But  what  do  the  folks  do  here? 

Fag.  Oh!  there  are  little  amusements 
enough. — In  the  morning  we  go  to  the  Pump- 
room  (though  neither  my  master  nor  I  drink 
the  waters);  after  breakfast  we  saunter  on 
the  Parades,  or  play  a  game  at  billiards;  at 
night  we  dance.  But  d— n  the  place,  I'm 
tired  of  it:  their  regular  hours  stupify  me — 
not  a  fiddle  nor  a  card  after  eleven!— How- 
ever Mr.  Faulkland's  gentleman  and  I  keep 
it  up  a  little  in  private  parties.— I'll  introduce 
you  there,  Thomas — you'll  like'  him  much. 

Coach.  Sure  I  know  Mr.  Du-Peigne — you 
know  his  master  is  to  marry  Madam  Julia. 

Fag.  1  had  forgot. — But  Thomas,  you  must 
polish  a  little — indeed  you  must.— Here  now— 
this  wig!  what  the  devil  do  you  do  with  a 
wig,  Thomas? — None  of  the  London  whips  of 
any  degree  of  ton  wear  wigs  now. 

Coach.  More's  the  pity!  more's  the  pity,  I 
say. — Odd's  life!  when  I  heard  how  the  law- 
yers and  doctors  had  took  to  their  own  hair, 
I  thought  how  'twould  go  next: — Odd  rabbit 
it!  when  the  fashion  had  got  foot  on  the  Bar, 
I  guessed  'twould  mount  to  the  Box ! — But 
'tis  all  out  of  character,  believe  me,  Mr.  Fag: 


and  look'ee,  I'll  never  gi'  up  mine — the  law- 
yers and  doctors  may  do  as  they  will. 

Fag.  Well,  Thomas,  we'll  not  quarrel 
about  that. 

Coach.  Why,  bless  you,  the  gentlemen  of 
the  professions  ben't  all  of  a  mind — for  in  our 
village  now,  tho'ff  Jack  Gauge,  the  exciseman, 
has  ta'en  to  his  carrots,  there's  little  Dick, 
the  farrier,  swears  he'll  never  forsake  his 
bob,  tho'  all  the  college  should  appear  with 
their  own  heads! 

Fag.  Indeed!  well  said,  Dick!  But  hold- 
mark  !  mark !  Thomas. 

Coach.  Zooks!  'tis  the  Captain!— Is  that 
the  lady  with  him? 

Fag.  No!  no!  that  is  Madam  Lucy— my 
master's  mistress's  maid. — They  lodge  at 
that  house.— But  I  must  after  him  to  tell 
him  the  news. 

Coach.  Odd!  he's  giving  her  money! — 
Well,  Mr.  Fag 

Fag.  Good  bye,  Thomas.— I  have  an  ap- 
pointment in  Gyde's  Porch  this  evening  at 
eight;  meet  me  there,  and  we'll  make  a  little 
party.  [Exeunt  severally. 

SCENE  II 

A    Dressing-Room   in    MRS.    MALAPROP'S 
Lodgings. 

LYDIA  sitting  on  a  sofa,  with  a  book  in  her 
hand. — LUCY,  as  just  returned  from  a 
•message. 

Lucy.  Indeed,  ma'am,  I  traversed  half  the 
town  in  search  of  it: — I  don't  believe  there's 
a  circulating  library  in  Bath  I  ha'n't  been  at. 

Lyd.  And  could  not  you  get  "  The  Reward 
of  Constancy  "  ? 

Lucy.     No,   indeed,  ma'am. 

Lyd.     Nor  "  The   Fatal   Connection  "f 

Lucy.     No,   indeed,   ma'am. 

Lyd.     Nor   "  The  Mistakes   of  the   Heart  "f 

Lucy.  Ma'am,  as  ill-luck  would  have  it, 
Mr.  Bull  said  Miss  Sukey  Saunter  had  just 
fetched  it  away. 

Lyd.  Heigh-ho !— Did  you  inquire  for  "  The 
Delicate  Distress  " ? — 

Lucy.  Or  "  The  Memoirs  of  Lady  Wood- 
ford"?  Yes  indeed,  ma'am.— I  asked  every 
where  for  it;  and  I  might  have  brought  it 
from  Mr.  Frederick's,  but  Lady  Slattern 
Lounger,  who  had  just  sent  it  home,  had  so 
soiled  and  dog's-eared  it,  it  wa'n't  fit  for  a 
Christian  to  read. 

Lyd.  Heigho-ho! — Yes,  I  always  know 
when  Lady  Slattern  has  been  before  me. — 
She  has  a  most  observing  thumb;  and  I  be- 
lieve cherishes  her  nails  for  the  convenience 
of  making  marginal  notes. — Well,  child,  what 
hare  you  brought  me  ? 

Lucy.  Oh!  here,  ma'am.  [Taking  books 
from  under  her  cloak,  and  from  her  pockets.} 
This  is  "  The  Gordian  Knot," — and  this 


364 


THE  RIVALS 


ACT  I,  Sc.  II. 


"  Peregrine  Pickle.''  Here  are  "  The  Tears 
of  Sensibility  "  and  "  Humphry  Clinker."  This 
is  "  The  Memoirs  of  a  Lady  of  Quality,  writ- 
ten by  herself," — and  here  the  second  volume 
of  "  The  Sentimental  Journey." 

Lyd.  Heigh-ho !— What  are  those  books  by 
the  glass? 

Lucy.  The  great  one  is  only  "  The  Whole 
Duty  of  Man  "—where  I  press  a  few  blonds, 


ma  am. 

Lyd. 

Lucy. 

Lyd. 

Lucy. 

Lyd. 

Lucy. 


Very    well— give   me   the   sal  volatile. 

Is  it  in  a  blue  cover,  ma'am  ? 
My  smelling  bottle,  you  simpleton! 

Oh,  the  drops! — Here,  ma'am. 
No  note,  Lucy  ? 

No,  indeed,  ma'am— but  I  have  seen 


a  certain  person- 

Lyd.     What,   my   Beverley !— Well,  Lucy? 

/..•/,•;.•.  O  ma'am!  he  looks  so  desponding 
and  melancholic ! 

Lyd.  Hold,  Lucy! — here's  some  one  com- 
ing—quick! see  who  it  is.— [Exit  Lucy.]  Sure- 
ly I  heard  my  cousin  Julia's  voice! 

Re-enter  LUCY. 

Lucy.     Lud!  ma'am,  here  is  Miss  Melville. 
Lyd.     Is  it  possible! 

Enter  JULIA. 
Lyd.     My  dearest  Julia,  how  delighted  am 


How     unexpected     was     this 


I !  —  [Embrace] 
happiness ! 

Jul.  True,  Lydia— and  our  pleasure  is  the 
greater. — But  what  has  been  the  matter?— 
you  were  denied  to  me  at  first ! 

Lyd.  Ah !  Julia,  I  have  a  thousand  things 
to  tell  you! — But  first  inform  me  what  has 
conjured  you  to  Bath? — Is  Sir  Anthony  here? 

Jul.  He  is — we  are  arrived  within  this 
hour — and  I  suppose  he  will  be  here  to  wait 
on  Mrs.  Malaprop  as  soon  as  he  is  dressed. 

Lyd.  Then,  before  we  are  interrupted,  let 
me  impart  to  you  some  of  my  distress ! — I 
know  your  gentle  nature  will  sympathize 
with  me,  tho'  your  prudence  may  condemn 
me ! — My  letters  have  informed  you  of  my 
whole  connection  with  Beverley; — but  I  have 
lost  him,  Julia! — my  aunt  has  discovered  our 
intercourse  by  a  note  she  intercepted,  and 

has  confined  me  ever  since! Yet,  would  you 

believe  it?  she  has  fallen  absolutely  in  love 
with  a  tall  Irish  baronet  she  met  one  night 
since  we  have  been  here,  at  Lady  Macshuffle's 
rout. 

Jul.     You   jest,   Lydia! 

Lyd.  No,  upon  my  word. — She  absolutely 
carries  on  a  kind  of  correspondence  with  him, 
under  a  feigned  name  though,  till  she  chooses 
to  be  known  to  him;— but  it  is  a  Delia  or  a 
Celia,  I  assure  you. 

Jul.  Then  surely  she  is  now  more  indulg- 
ent to  her  niece. 

Lyd.  Quite  the  contrary.  Since  she  has 
discovered  her  own  frailty  she  is  become 


more  suspicious  of  mine.  Then  I  must  in- 
form you  of  another  plague!— That  odious 
Acres  is  to  be  in  Bath  to-day;  so  that  I  pro- 
test I  shall  be  teased  out  of  all  spirits! 

Jul.  Come,  come,  Lydia,  hope  the  best.— 
Sir  Anthony  shall  use  his  interest  with  Mrs. 
Malaprop. 

Lyd.  But  you  have  not  heard  the  worst. 
Unfortunately  I  had  quarrelled  with  my  poor 
Beverley  just  before  my  aunt  made  the  dis- 
covery, and  I  have  not  seen  him  since  to 
make  it  up. 

Jul.     What  was  his  offence? 

Lyd.  Nothing  at  all!— But,  I  don't  know 
how  it  was,  as  often  as  we  had  been  together 
we  had  never  had  a  quarrel!— And  somehow 
I  was  afraid  he  would  never  give  me  an  op- 
portunity.—So  last  Thursday  I  wrote  a  letter 
to  myself  to  inform  myself  that  Beverley 
was  at  that  time  paying  his  addresses  to 
another  woman. — I  signed  it  your  friend  un- 
known, showed  it  to  Beverley,  charged  him 
with  his  falsehood,  put  myself  in  a  violent 
passion,  and  vowed  I'd  never  see  him  more. 

Jul.  And  you  let  him  depart  so,  and  have 
not  seen  him  since? 

Lyd.  'Twas  the  next  day  my  aunt  found 
the  matter  out.  I  intended  only  to  have 
teased  him  three  days  and  a  half,  and  now 
I've  lost  him  for  ever! 

Jul.  If  he  is  as  deserving  and  sincere  ns 
you  have  represented  him  to  me,  he  will 
never  give  you  up  so.  Yet  consider,  Lydia, 
you  tell  me  he  is  but  an  ensign,  and  you 
have  thirty  thousand  pounds! 

Lyd.  But  you  know  I  lose  most  of  my 
fortune  if  I  marry  without  my  aunt's  con- 
sent, till  of  age;  and  that  is  what  I  have 
determined  to  do  ever  since  I  knew  the 
penalty. — Nor  could  I  love  the  man  who 
would  wish  to  wait  a  day  for  the  alternative. 

Jul.     Nay,   this   is   caprice! 

Lyd.  What,  does  Julia  tax  me  with 
caprice? — I  thought  her  lover  Faulkland  had 
enured  her  to  it. 

Jul.     I   do  not  love 

Lyd.     But  a-propos 
I  suppose? 

Jul.  Not  yet,  upon  my  word— nor  has  he 
the  least  idea  of  my  being  in  Bath. — Sir  An- 
thony's resolution  was  so  sudden  I  could 
not  inform  him  of  it. 

Lyd.  Well,  Julia,  you  are  your  own  mis- 
tress (though  under  the  protection  of  Sir 
Anthony),  yet  have  you  for  this  long  year 
been  the  slave  to  the  caprice,  the  whim,  the 
jealousy  of  this  ungrateful  Faulkland,  who 
will  ever  delay  assuming  the  right  of  a  hus- 
band, while  you  suffer  him  to  be  equally  im- 
perious as  a  lover. 

Jul.     Nay,    you    are    wrong    entirely.— We 
were   contracted   before   my   father's    death. — 
That,   and  some  consequent   embarrassments, . 
have  delayed  what  I  know   to  be   my  Faulk- 


even  his  faults. 

-you  have  sent  to  him, 


365 


ACT  I,  Sc.  II. 


THE  RIVALS 


land's  most  ardent  wish. — He  is  too  generous 
to  trifle  on  such  a  point.— And  for  his  char- 
acter, you  wrong  him  there  too. — No,  Lydia, 
he  is  too  proud,  too  noble  to  be  jealous.  If 
he  is  captious,  'tis  without  dissembling;  if 
fretful,  without  rudeness. — Unused  to  the 
foppery  of  love,  he  is  negligent  of  the  little 
duties  expected  from  a  lover — but  being  un- 
hackneyed in  the  passion,  his  love  is  ardent 
and  sincere;  and  as  it  engrosses  his  whole 
soul,  he  expects  every  thought  and  emotion 
of  his  mistress  to  move  in  unison  with  his. — 
Yet,  though  his  pride  calls  for  this  full  re- 
turn— his  humility  makes  him  undervalue 
those  qualities  in  him  which  should  entitle 
him  to  it;  and  not  feeling  why  he  should  be 
loved  to  the  degree  he  wishes,  he  still  sus- 
pects that  he  is  not  loved  enough. — This  tem- 
per, I  must  own,  has  cost  me  many  unhappy 
hours;  but  I  have  learned  to  think  myself 
bis  debtor  for  those  imperfections  which  arise 
from  the  ardor  of  his  love. 

Lyd.  Well,  I  cannot  blame  you  for  de- 
fending him. — But  tell  me  candidly,  Julia, 
had  he  never  saved  your  life,  do  you  think 
you  should  have  been  attached  to  him  as  you 
are?— Believe  me,  the  rude  blast  that  overset 
your  boat  was  a  prosperous  gale  of  love  to 
him! 

Jiil.  Gratitude  may  have  strengthened  my 
attachment  to  Mr.  Faulkland,  but  I  loved 
him  before  he  had  preserved  me;  yet  surely 
that  alone  were  an  obligation  sufficient. 

Lyd.  Obligation !  —  Why,  a  water-spaniel 
would  have  done  as  much. — Well,  I  should 
never  think  of  giving  my  heart  to  a  man  be- 
cause he  could  swim! 

Jnl.  Come,  Lydia,  you  are  too  inconsider- 
ate. 

Lyd.     Nay,    I    do    but    jest.— What's    here? 

Enter  LUCY  in  a  hurry. 

Lucy.  O  ma'am,  here  is  Sir  Anthony  Ab- 
solute just  come  home  with  your  aunt. 

Lyd.  They'll  not  come  here. — Lucy,  do  you 
watch.  [Exit  LUCY. 

Jnl.  Yet  I  must  go. — Sir  Anthony  does  not 
know  I  am  here,  and  if  we  meet  he'll  detain 
me  to  show  me  the  town. — I'll  take  another 
opportunity  of  paying  my  respects  to  Mrs. 
Malaprop,  when  she  shall  treat  me  as  long 
as  she  chooses  with  her  select  words  so  in- 
geniously misapplied,  without  being  mispro- 
nounced. 

Re-enter  LUCY. 

Lucy.  O  Lud!  ma'am,  they  are  both  com- 
ing up  stairs. 

Lyd.  Well,  I'll  not  detain  you,  coz. — 
Adieu,  my  dear  Julia.  I'm  sure  you  are  in 
haste  to  send  to  Faulkland. — There— through 
my  room  you'll  find  another  stair-case. 

Jul.     Adieu. [Embrace.     Exit  JULIA. 

Lyd.     Here,     my     dear     Lucy,     hide     these 


books.— Quick,  quick!— Fling  Peregrine  Pickle 
under  the  toilet— throw  Roderick  Random 
into  the  closet — put  The  Innocent  Adultery 
into  The  Whole  Duty  of  Man — thrust  Lord 
Aimworth  under  the  sofa— cram  Ovid  behind 
the  bolster— there— put  The  Man  of  Feeling 
into  your  pocket — so,  so, — now  lay  Mrs. 
Chapone  in  sight,  and  leave  Fordyce's  Ser- 
mons open  on  the  table. 

Lucy.  O  burn  it,  ma'am!  the  hair-dresser 
has  torn  away  as  far  as  Proper  Pride. 

Lyd.  Never  mind  —  open  at  Sobriety. — 
Fling  me  Lord  Chesterfield's  Letters. — Now 
for  'em. 

Enter  MRS.  MALAPROP,  and  SIR  ANTHONY 
ABSOLUTE. 

Mrs.  Mai.  There,  Sir  Anthony,  there  sits 
the  deliberate  simpleton,  who  wants  to  dis- 
grace her  family,  and  lavish  herself  on  a  fel- 
low not  worth  a  shilling! 

Lyd.     Madam,   I   thought  you  once 

Mrs.  Mai.  You  thought,  miss!— I  don't 
know  any  business  you  have  to  think  at  all 
— thought  does  not  become  a  young  woman. 
The  point  we  would  request  of  you  is  that 
you  will  promise  to  forget  this  fellow— to 
illiterate  him,  I  say,  quite  from  your  mem- 
ory. 

Lyd.  Ah!  madam!  our  memories  are  in- 
dependent of  our  wills. — It  is  not  so  easy  to 
forget. 

Mrs.  Mai.  But  I  say  it  is,  miss.  There  is 
nothing  on  earth  so  easy  as  to  forget,  if  a 
person  chooses  to  set  about  it. — I'm  sure  I 
have  as  much  forgot  your  poor  dear  uncle  as 
if  he  had  never  existed — and  I  thought  it 
my  duty  so  to  do;  and  let  me  tell  you,  Lydia, 
these  violent  memories  don't  become  a  young 
woman. 

Sir  Anth.  Why  sure  she  won't  pretend  to 
remember  what  she's  ordered  not! — Aye,  this 
comes  of  her  reading ! 

Lyd.  What  crime,  madam,  have  I  com- 
mitted to  be  treated  thus? 

Mrs.  Mai.  Now  don't  attempt  to  extirpate 
yourself  from  the  matter;  you  know  I  have 
proof  controvertible  of  it. — But  tell  me,  will 
you  promise  to  do  as  you're  bid?— Will  you 
take  a  husband  of  your  friends'  choosing? 

Lyd.  Madam,  I  must  tell  you  plainly,  that 
had  I  no  preference  for  any  one  else,  the 
choice  you  have  made  would  be  my  aversion. 

Mrs.  Mai.  What  business  have  you,  miss, 
with  preference  and  aversion?  They  don't 
become  a  young  woman;  and  you  ought  to 
know,  that  as  both  always  wear  off,  'tis 
safest  in  matrimony  to  begin  with  a  little 
aversion.  I  am  sure  I  hated  your  poor  dear 
uncle  before  marriage  as  if  he'd  been  a 
black-a-moor — and  yet,  miss,  you  are  sensi- 
ble what  a  wife  I  made! — and  when  it  pleased 
Heaven  to  release  me  from  him,  'tis  unknown 
what  tears  I  shed! — But  suppose  we  were 


366 


THE  RIVALS 


ACT  I,  Sc.  II. 


going  to  give  you  another  choice,  will  you 
promise  us  to  give  up  this  Beverley? 

Lyd.  Could  I  belie  my  thoughts  so  far 
as  to  give  that  promise,  my  actions  would 
certainly  as  far  belie  my  words. 

Mrs.  Mai.  Take  yourself  to  your  room.— 
You  are  fit  company  for  nothing  but  your 
own  ill-humors. 

Lyd.  Willingly,  ma'am. — I  cannot  change 
for  the  worse.  [Exit  LYDIA. 

Mrs.  Mai.  There's  a  little  intricate  hussy 
for  you! 

Sir  Anth.  It  is  not  to  be  wondered  at, 
ma'am — all  this  is  the  natural  consequence 
of  teaching  girls  to  read.— Had  I  a  thousand 
daughters,  by  Heavens!  I'd  as  soon  have 
them  taught  the  black-art  as  their  alphabet! 

Mrs.  Mai.  Nay,  nay,  Sir  Anthony,  you  are 
an  absolute  misanthropy. 

Sir  Anth.  In  my  way  hither,  Mrs.  Mala- 
prop,  I  observed  your  niece's  maid  coming 
forth  from  a  circulating  library!— She  had  a 
book  in  each  hand— they  were  half-bound 
volumes,  with  marbled  covers!— From  that 
moment  I  guessed  how  full  of  duty  I  should 
see  her  mistress ! 

Mrs.   Mai.     Those   are   vile   places,   indeed! 

Sir  Anth.  Madam,  a  circulating  library 
in  a  town  is  as  an  ever-green  tree  of  dia- 
bolical knowledge !—  It  blossoms  through  the 
year!— And  depend  on  it,  Mrs.  Malaprop,  that 
they  who  are  so  fond  of  handling  the  leaves, 
will  long  for  the  fruit  at  last. 

Mrs.  Mai.  Well,  but  Sir  Anthony,  your 
wife,  Lady  Absolute,  was  fond  of  books. 

Sir  Anth.  Aye — and  injury  sufficient  they 
were  to  her,  madam. — But  were  I  to  choose 
another  helpmate,  the  extent  of  her  erudi- 
tion should  consist  in  her  knowing  her  sim- 
ple letters,  without  their  mischievous  com- 
binations;— and  the  summit  of  her  science  be 
— her  ability  to  count  as  far  as  twenty. — 
The  first,  Mrs.  Malaprop,  would  enable  her 
to  work  A.  A.  upon  my  linen; — and  the 
latter  would  be  quite  sufficient  to  prevent  her 
giving  me  a  shirt  No.  1  and  a  stock  No.  2. 

Mrs.  Mai.  Fie,  fie,  Sir  Anthony,  you 
surely  speak  laconically ! 

Sir  Anth.  Why,  Mrs.  Malaprop,  in  mod- 
eration now,  what  would  you  have  a  woman 
know? 

Mrs.  Mai.  Observe  me,  Sir  Anthony.— I 
would  by  no  means  wish  a  daughter  of  mine 
to  be  a  progeny  of  learning;  I  don't  think  so 
much  learning  becomes  a  young  woman;  for 
instance — I  would  never  let  her  meddle  with 
Greek,  or  Hebrew,  or  Algebra,  or  Simony, 
or  Fluxions,  or  Paradoxes,  or  such  inflamma- 
tory branches  of  learning — neither  would  It 
be  necessary  for  her  to  handle  any  of  your 
mathematical,  astronomical,  diabolical  instru- 
ments;— but,  Sir  Anthony,  I  would  send  her 
at  nine  years  old  to  a  boarding-school,  in 
order  to  learn  a  little  ingenuity  and  arti- 


fice.— Then,  sir,  she  should  have  a  supercil- 
ious knowledge  in  accounts;— and  as  she 
grew  up,  I  would  have  her  instructed  in 
geometry,  that  she  might  know  something 
of  the  contagious  countries; — but  above  all, 
Sir  Anthony,  she  should  be  mistress  of  or- 
thodoxy, that  she  might  not  mis-spell,  and 
mis-pronounce  words  so  shamefully  as  girls 
usually  do;  and  like, vise  that  she  might 
reprehend  the  true  meaning  of  what  she  :s 
saying.— This,  Sir  Anthony,  is  what  I  would 
have  a  woman  know;— and  I  don't  think 
there  is  a  superstitious  article  in  it. 

Sir  Anth.  Well,  well,  Mrs.  Malaprop,  I 
will  dispute  the  point  no  further  with  you; 
though  I  must  confess  that  you  are  a  truly 
moderate  and  polite  arguer,  for  almost  every 
third  word  you  say  is  on  my  side  of  the 
question.— But,  Mrs.  Malaprop,  to  the  more 
important  point  in  debate, — you  say  you 
have  no  objection  to  my  proposal. 

Mrs.  Mai.  None,  I  assure  you. — I  am  under 
no  positive  engagement  with  Mr.  Acres,  and 
as  Lydia  is  so  obstinate  against  him,  perhaps 
your  son  may  have  better  success. 

Sir  Anth.  Well,  madam,  I  will  write  for 
the  boy  directly. — He  knows  not  a  syllable  of 
this  yet,  though  I  have  for  some  time  had 
the  proposal  in  my  head.  He  is  at  present 
with  his  regiment. 

Mrs.  Mai.  We  have  never  seen  your  son,  Sir 
Anthony;  but  I  hope  no  objection  on  his  side. 

Sir  Anth.  Objection! — let  him  object  if  he 
dare!— No,  no,  Mrs.  Malaprop,  Jack  knows 
that  the  least  demur  puts  me  in  a  frenzy  di- 
rectly. My  process  was  always  very  simple — 
in  their  younger  days,  'twas  "Jack  do  this;" 
—if  he  demurred— I  knocked  him  down — and  if 
he  grumbled  at  that— I  always  sent  him  out 
of  the  room. 

Mrs.  Mai.  Aye,  and  the  properest  way,  o* 
my  conscience ! — nothing  is  so  conciliating  to 
young  people  as  severity. — Well,  Sir  Anthony, 
I  shall  give  Mr.  Acres'  his  discharge,  and 
prepare  Lydia  to  receive  your  son's  invoca- 
tions;— and  I  hope  you  will  represent  her  to 
the  Captain  as  an  object  not  altogether  il- 
legible. 

Sir  Anth.  Madam,  I  will  handle  the  sub- 
ject prudently. — Well,  I  must  leave  you — 
and  let  me  beg  you,  Mrs.  Malaprop,  to  en- 
force this  matter  roundly  to  the  girl; — take 
my  advice — keep  a  tight  hand — if  she  rejects 
this  proposal — clap  her  under  lock  and  key;  — 
and  if  you  were  just  to  let  the  servants  for- 
get to  bring  her  dinner  for  three  or  four 
days,  you  can't  conceive  how  she'd  come 
about!  [Exit  SIR  ANTH. 

Mrs.  Mai.  Well,  at  any  rate  I  shall  be 
glad  to  get  her  from  under  my  intuition. — 
She  has  somehow  discovered  my  partiality 
for  Sir  Lucius  O'Trigger — Sure,  Lucy  can't 
have  betrayed  me! — No,  the  girl  is  such  • 
simpleton  I  should  have  made  her  confess 


367 


ACT  II,  Sc.  I. 


THE  RIVALS 


it.— Lucy! — Lucy! — [Calls]  Had  she  been  one 
of  your  artificial  ones  I  should  never  have 
trusted  her. 

Enter  LUCY. 

Lucy.     Did  you  call,  ma'am? 

Mrs.  Mai.  Yes,  girl.— Did  you  see  Sir 
Lucius  while  you  was  out? 

Lucy.  No,  indeed,  ma'am,  not  a  glimpse 
of  him. 

Mrs.  Mai.  You  are  sure,  Lucy,  that  you 
never  mentioned 

Lucy.  O  Gemini!  I'd  sooner  cut  my 
tongue  out. 

Mrs.  Mai.  Well,  don't  let  your  simplicity 
be  imposed  on. 

Lucy.     No,    ma'am. 

Mrs.  Mai.  So,  come  to  me  presently,  and 
I'll  give  you  another  letter  to  Sir  Lucius. — 
But  mind,  Lucy — if  ever  you  betray  what  you 
are  entrusted  with— (unless  it  be  other  peo- 
ple's secrets  to  me)  you  forfeit  my  malevo- 
lence forever:— and  your  being  a  simpleton 
shall  be  no  excuse  for  your  locality. 

[Exit    MRS.    MALAPROP. 

Lucy.  Ha!  ha!  ha! — So,  my  dear  simplicity, 
let  me  give  you  a  little  respite. — [Altering  her 
manner] — Let  girls  in  my  station  be  as  fond 
as  they  please  of  appearing  expert,  and 
knowing  in  their  trusts — commend  me  to  a 
mask  of  silliness,  and  a  pair  of  sharp  eyes 
for  my  own  interest  under  it! — Let  me  see 
to  what  account  I  have  turned  my  simplicity 
lately — [Looks  at  a  paper]  For  abetting  Miss 
Lydia  Languish  in  a  design  of  running  away 
with  an  Ensign! — in  money — sundry  times — 
twelve  pound  twelve  —  gowns,  five  —  hats , 
ruffles,  caps  &c.,  &c. — numberless! — From  the 
said  Ensign,  within  this  last  month,  six 
guineas  and  a  half. — About  a  quarter's  pay!— 
Item,  from  Mrs.  Malaprop,  for  betraying  the 
young  people  to  her — when  I  found  matters 
were  likely  to  be  discovered — two  guineas,  and 
a  black  paduasoy. — Item,  from  Mr.  Acres,  for 
carrying  divers  letters — which  I  never  deliv- 
ered— two  guineas,  and  a  pair  of  buckles. — 
Item,  from  Sir  Lucius  O'Trigger — three  crowns 
— two  gold  pocket-pieces — and  a  silver  snuff- 
box!—  Well  done,  simplicity!  —  Yet  I  was 
forced  to  make  my  Hibernian  believe  that  he 
was  corresponding,  not  with  the  aunt,  but 
with  the  niece:  for,  though  not  over  rich,  I 
found  he  had  too  much  pride  and  delicacy  to 
sacrifice  the  feelings  of  a  gentleman  to  the 
necessities  of  his  fortune.  [Exit. 


ACT  II 

SCENE  I 
CAPTAIN    ABSOLUTE'S    Lodgings. 

CAPTAIN  ABSOLUTE  and  FAG. 
Fag.     Sir,  while   I  was  there  Sir  Anthony 


quire  after  his  health,  and  to  know  if  he  was 
at  leisure  to  see  you. 

Abs.  And  what  did  he  say  on  hearing  I 
was  at  Bath? 

Fag.  Sir,  in  my  life  I  never  saw  an  elderly 
gentleman  more  astonished!  He  started  back 
two  or  three  paces,  rapt  out  a  dozen  inter- 
jectoral  oaths,  and  asked  what  the  devil  had 
brought  you  here! 

Abs.     Well,  sir,  and  what  did  you  say? 

Fag.  O,  I  lied,  sir— I  forget  the  precise 
lie;  but  you  may  depend  on't,  he  got  no 
truth  from  me.  Yet,  with  submission,  for 
fear  of  blunders  in  future,  I  should  be  glad 
to  fix  what  has  brought  us  to  Bath,  in  ordar 
that  we  may  lie  a  little  consistently. — Sir 
Anthony's  servants  were  curious,  sir,  very 
curious  indeed. 


Abs. 
Fag. 


You  have  said  nothing  to  them ? 

O,  not  a  word,  sir, — not  a  word. — Mr. 


Thomas,  indeed,  the  coachman  (whom  I  take 
to  be  the  discreetest  of  whips) 

Abs.  S'death!— you  rascal!  you  have  not 
trusted  him! 

Fag.  O,  no,  sir!— no — no — not  a  syllable, 
upon  my  veracity!— He  was,  indeed,  a  little 
inquisitive;  but  I  was  sly,  sir — devilish  sly! 
—My  master  (said  I),  honest  Thomas  (you 
know,  sir,  one  says  honest  to  one's  inferiors), 
is  come  to  Bath  to  recruit. — Yes,  sir— I  said, 
to  recruit— and  whether  for  men,  money,  or 
constitution,  you  know,  sir,  is  nothing  to 
him,  nor  any  one  else. 

Abs.     Well— recruit — will  Jo— let  it  be  so 

Fag.  O,  sir,  recruit  will  do  surprisingly.— 
Indeed,  to  give  the  thing  an  air,  I  told 
Thomas  that  your  Honor  had  already  en- 
listed five  disbanded  cha-'rmen,  seven  minor- 
ity waiters,  and  thirteen  billiard  markers. 

Abs.  You  blockhead,  never  say  more  than 
is  necessary. 

Fag.  1  beg  pardon,  sir— I  beg  pardon.— 
But,  with  submission,  a  lie  is  nothing  unless 
one  supports  it.— Sir,  whenever  I  draw  on  my 
invention  for  a  good  current  lie,  I  always 
forge  indorsements,  as  well  as  the  bill. 


Abs. 
credit 


Well,  take  care  you  don't  hurt  your 
by    offering     too    much    security. — Is 


came  in:  I  told  him  you  had  sent  me  to  in- 

368 


Mr.  Faulkland  returned? 

Fag.     He  is  above,  sir,  changing  his  dress. 

Abs.  Can  you  tell  whether  he  has  been 
informed  of  Sir  Anthony's  and  Miss  Melville's 
arrival  ? 

Fag.  I  fancy  not,  sir;  he  has  seen  no  one 
since  he  came  in,  but  his  gentleman,  who 
was  with  him  at  Bristol.— I  think,  sir,  I  hear 
Mr.  Faulkland  coming  down. 

Abs.     Go  tell  him  I  am  here. 

Fag.  Yes,  sir. — [Going]  I  beg  pardon,  sir, 
but  should  Sir  Anthony  call,  you  will  do  me 
the  favor  to  remember  that  we  are  recruit- 
ing, if  you  please. 

Abs.     Well,  well. 

Fag.     And  in  tenderness  to  my   character, 


THE  RIVALS 


ACT  II,  Sc.  I. 


if  your  Honor  could  bring  in  the  chairmen 
and  waiters,  I  shall  esteem  it  as  an  obliga- 
tion;— for  though  I  never  scruple  a  lie  to 
serve  my  master,  yet  it  hurts  one's  con- 
science to  be  found  out.  [Exit. 
Abs.  Now  for  my  whimsical  friend. — If 
he  does  not  know  that  his  mistress  is  here, 
I'll  tease  him  a  little  before  I  tell  him 

Enter  FAULKLAND. 

Faulkland,  you're  welcome  to  Bath  again; 
you  are  punctual  in  your  return. 

Faulk.  Yes;  I  had  nothing  to  detain  me 
when  I  had  finished  the  business  I  went  on. 
Well,  what  news  since  I  left  you?  How  stand 
matters  between  you  and  Lydia? 

Abs.  Faith,  much  as  they  were.  I  have 
not  seen  her  since  our  quarrel;  however,  I 
expect  to  be  recalled  every  hour. 

Faulk.  Why  don't  you  persuade  her  to 
go  off  with  you  at  once? 

Abs.  What,  and  lose  two  thirds  of  her 
fortune  ?  You  forget  that,  my  friend.— No, 
no,  I  could  have  brought  her  to  that  long 
ago. 

Faulk.  Nay  then,  you  trifle  too  long. — If 
you  are  sure  of  her,  propose  to  the  aunt  in 
your  own  character,  and  write  to  Sir  An- 
thony for  his  consent. 

Abs.  Softly,  softly,  for  though  I  am  con- 
vinced my  little  Lydia  would  elope  with  me 
as  Ensign  Beverley,  yet  am  I  by  no  means 
certain  that  she  would  take  me  with  the  im- 
pediment of  our  friends'  consent,  a  regular 
humdrum  wedding,  and  the  reversion  of  a 
good  fortune  on  my  side.  No,  no,  I  must 
prepare  her  gradually  for  the  discovery,  and 
make  myself  necessary  to  her,  before  I  risk 
it.— Well,  but  Faulkland,  you'll  dine  with  us 
to-day  at  the  hotel? 

Faulk.  Indeed,  I  cannot.  I  am  not  in 
spirits  to  be  of  such  a  party. 

Abs.  By  Heavens!  I  shall  forswear  your 
company.  You  are  the  most  teasing,  cap- 
tious, incorrigible  lover! — Do  love  like  a 
man! 

Faulk.     I  own  I  am  unfit  for  company. 

Abs.  Am  not  /  a  lover;  aye,  and  a  ro- 
mantic one  too?  Yet  do  I  carry  every 
where  with  me  such  a  confounded  farago  of 
doubts,  fears,  hopes,  wishes,  and  all  the 
flimsy  furniture  of  a  country  miss's  brain? 

Faulk.  Ah!  Jack,  your  heart  and  soul  are 
not,  like  mine,  fixed  immutably  on  one  only 
object. — You  throw  for  a  large  stake,  but 
losing — you  could  stake,  and  throw  again: — 
but  I  have  set  my  sum  of  happiness  on  this 
cast,  and  not  to  succeed  were  to  be  stript  of 
all. 

Abs.  But,  for  Heaven's  sake!  what  grounds 
for  apprehension  can  your  whimsical  brain 
conjure  up  at  present?  Has  Julia  missed 


writing   this   last   post?  pr  was   her  la»t  too 


tender,  or  too  cool;  or  too  grave,  or  too  gay; 
or 

Faulk.     Nay,   nay,   Jack. 

Abs.  Why,  her  love  —  her  honor  —  her 
prudence,  you  cannot  doubt. 

Faulk.  O!  upon  my  soul,  I  never  have. — 
But  what  grounds  for  apprehension  did  you. 
say  ?  Heavens !  are  there  not  a  thousand !  I 
fear  for  her  spirits — her  health— her  life. — 
My  absence  may  fret  her;  her  anxiety  for 
my  return,  her  fears  for  me,  may  oppress 
her  gentle  temper.  And  for  her  health — does 
not  every  hour  bring  me  cause  to  be 
alarmed?  If  it  rains,  some  shower  may  even 
then  have  chilled  her  delicate  frame!— If  the 
wind  be  keen,  some  rude  blast  may  have 
affected  her!  The  heat  of  noon,  the  dews  of 
the  evening,  may  endanger  the  life  of  her, 
for  whom  only  I  value  mine.  O!  Jack,  when 
delicate  and  feeling  souls  are  separated,  there 
is  not  a  feature  in  the  sky  not  a  movement 
of  the  elements,  not  an  aspiration  of  the 
breeze,  but  hints  some  cause  for  a  lover's 
apprehension ! 

Abs.  Aye,  but  we  may  choose  whether  we 
will  take  the  hint  or  no.— Well  then,  Faulk- 
land, if  you  were  convinced  that  Julia  was 
well  and  in  spirits,  you  would  be  entirely 
content  ? 

Faulk.  I  should  be  happy  beyond  meas- 
ure— I'm  anxious  only  for  that. 

Abs.  Then  to  cure  your  anxiety  at  once — 
Miss  Melville  is  in  perfect  health,  and  is 
at  this  moment  in  Bath ! 

Faulk.     Nay,    Jack — don't    trifle    with    me. 

Abs.  She  is  arrived  here  with  my  father 
within  this  hour. 

Faulk.     Can    you    be    serious? 

Abs.  1  thought  you  knew  Sir  Anthony 
better  than  to  be  surprised  at  a  sudden 
whim  of  this  kind. — Seriously  then,  it  is  as 
I  tell  you — upon  my  honor. 

Faulk.  My  dear  friend!  —  Hollo,  Du- 
Peigne!  my  hat. — My  dear  Jack — now  nothing: 
on  earth  can  give  me  a  moment's  uneasiness. 

Enter    FAG. 


Fag. 
Abs. 


Sir,  Mr.  Acres  just  arrived  is  below. 
Stay,     Faulkland,     this     Acres     lives 


within  a  mile  of  Sir  Anthony,  and  he  shall 
tell  you  how  your  mistress  has  been  ever 
since  you  left  her. — Fag,  show  the  gentle- 
man up.  [Exit  FAG. 

Faulk.  What,  is  he  much  acquainted  in 
the  family? 

Abs.  O,  very  intimate.  I  insist  on  your 
not  going:  besides,  his  character  will  divert 
you. 

Faulk.  Well,  I  should  like  to  ask  him  a 
few  questions. 

Abs.  He  is  likewise  a  rival  of  mine- 
that  is  of  my  oilier  self's,  for  he  does  not 
think  his  friend  Capt.  Absolute  ever  saw 
the  lady  in  question;— and  it  is  ridiculous 


369 


ACT  II,  Sc.  I. 


THE  RIVALS 


enough   to   bear  him   complain   to   me  of   one 
Beverley,       a       concealed       sculking       rival, 

who 

Faulk.     Hush ! — He's    here. 

Enter  ACRES. 

Acres.  Hah!  my  dear  friend,  noble  captain, 
and  honest  Jack,  how  do'st  thou  ?  Just  ar- 
rived, faith,  as  you  see. — Sir,  your  humble 
servant.  Warm  work  on  the  roads,  Jack! — 
Odds,  whips  and  wheels !  I've  travelled  like 
a  comet,  with  a  tail  of  dust  all  the  way  as 
long  as  the  Mall. 

Abs.  Ah!  Bob,  you  are  indeed  an  ec- 
centric planet;  but  we  know  your  attrac- 
tion hither. — Give  me  leave  to  introduce 
Mr.  Faulkland  to  you.  Mr.  Faulkland,  Mr. 
Acres. 

Acres.  Sir,  I  am  most  heartily  glad  to 
see  you:  Sir,  I  solicit  your  connections. — 
Hey,  Jack, — what, — this  is  Mr.  Faulkland, 
who ? 

Abs.  Aye,  Bob,  Miss  Melville's  Mr. 
Faulkland. 

Acres.  Od'so!  she  and  your  father  can  be 
but  just  arrived  before  me: — I  suppose  you 

have  seen  them. Ah !  Mr.  Faulkland,  you 

are  indeed  a  happy  man. 

Faulk.  I  have  not  seen  Miss  Melville  yet, 
sir. — I  hope  she  enjoyed  full  health  and 
spirits  in  Devonshire  ? 

Acres.  Never  knew  her  better  in  my  life, 
sir — never  better.— Odd's  blushes  and  blooms! 
she  has  been  as  healthy  as  the  German  Spa. 

Faulk.  Indeed! — I  did  hear  that  she  had 
been  a  little  indisposed. 

Acres.  False,  false,  sir — only  said  to  vex 
you:  quite  the  reverse,  I  assure  you. 

Faulk.  There,  Jack,  you  see  she  has  the 
advantage  of  me;  I  had  almost  fretted  my- 
self ill. 

Abs.  Now  are  you  angry  with  your  mis- 
tress for  not  having  been  sick. 

Faulk.  No,  no,  you  misunderstand  me: — 
yet  surely  a  little  trifling  indisposition  is 
not  an  unnatural  consequence  of  absence 
from  those  we  love. — Now  confess — isn't 
there  something  unkind  in  this  violent,  ro- 
bust, unfeeling  health  ? 

Abs.  O,  it  was  very  unkind  of  her  to  be 
well  in  your  absence,  to  be  sure! 

Acres.     Good   apartments,   Jack. 

Faulk.  Well,  sir,  but  you  were  saying  that 
Miss  Melville  has  been  so  exceedingly  well — 
what,  then,  she  has  been  merry  and  gay,  I 
suppose ?— Always  in  spirits — hey? 

Acres.  Merry!  Odds  crickets!  she  has 
been  the  belle  and  spirit  of  the  company 
wherever  she  has  been— so  lively  and  enter- 
taining !  so  full  of  wit  and  humor ! 

Faulk.  There,  Jack,  there!— O,  by  my 
soul!  there  is  an  innate  levity  in  woman,  that 
nothing  can  overcome. — What!  happy  and  I 


away! 


Abs.  Have  done.  How  foolish  this  is! 
Just  now  you  were  only  apprehensive  for 
your  mistress's  spirits. 

Faulk.  Why,  Jack,  have  I  been  the  joy 
and  spirit  of  the  company? 

Abs.     No,  indeed,  you  have  not. 

Faulk.  Have  I  been  lively  and  enter- 
taining ? 

Abs.     O,  upon  my  word,  I  acquit  you. 

Faulk.  Have  I  been  full  of  wit  and 
humor  ? 

Abs.  No,  faith;  to  do  you  justice,  you 
have  been  confounded  stupid  indeed. 

Acres.  What's  the  matter  with  the  gentle- 
man? 

Abs.  He  is  only  expressing  his  great  sat- 
isfaction at  hearing  that  Julia  has  been 
so  well  and  happy — that's  all— hey,  Faulk- 
land? 

Faulk.  Oh!  I  am  rejoiced  to  hear  it— yes, 
yes,  she  has  a  happy  disposition! 

Acres.  That  she  has  indeed. — Then  she 
is  so  accomplished — so  sweet  a  voice — so  ex- 
pert at  her  harpsichord — such  a  mistress  of 
flat  and  sharp,  squallante,  rumblante,  and 
qu:  verante ! — there  was  this  time  month. — 
Odds  minnums  and  crotchets!  how  she  did 
chirup  at  Mrs.  Piano's  concerts! 

Faulk.  There  again,  what  say  you  to 
this?  You  see  she  has  been  all  mirth  and 
song— not  a  thought  of  me! 

Abs.  Pho!  man,  is  not  music  the  food  of 
love? 

Faulk.  Well,  well,  it  may  be  so.— Pray, 
Mr. what's  his  d — d  name  ? — Do  you  re- 
member what  songs  Miss  Melville  sung? 

Acres.     Not  I,  indeed. 

Abs.  Stay  now,  they  were  some  pretty, 
melancholy,  purling-stream  airs,  I  warrant; 
perhaps  you  may  recollect; — did  she  sing 
— "  When  absent  from  my  soul's  delight  " ? 

Acres.     No,   that  wa'n't  it. 

Abs.  Or — "Go,  gentle  gales"? "Go, 

gentle  gales!  "  [Sings.} 

Acres.  O  no!  nothing  like  it.— Odds  slips! 
now  I  recollect  one  of  them — "  My  heart's  my 
own,  my  will  is  free."  [Sings.] 

Faulk.  Fool !  fool  that  I  am !  to  fix  all 
my  happiness  on  such  a  trifler!  S'death!  to 
make  herself  the  pipe  and  ballad-monger  of 
a  circle !  to  soothe  her  light  heart  with 
catches  and  glees! — What  can  you  say  to 
this,  sir? 

Abs.  Why,  that  I  should  be  glad  to  hear 
my  mistress  had  been  so  merry,  sir. 

Faulk.  Nay,  nay,  nay — I  am  not  sorry 
that  she  has  been  happy — no,  no,  I  am 
glad  of  that — I  would  not  have  had  her 
sad  or  sick — yet  surely  a  sympathetic  heart 
would  have  shown  itself  even  in  the  choice 
of  a  song— she  might  have  been  temper- 
ately healthy,  and,  somehow,  plaintively 
gay; — but  she  has  been  dancing  too,  I  doubt 


not! 
370 


THE  RIVALS 


ACT  II,  Sc.  I. 


Acres.     What 
about    dancing? 


does     the     gentleman     say 


Abs.  He  says  the  lady  we  speak  of  dances 
as  well  as  she  sings. 

Acres.  Aye,  truly,  does  she. — There  was  at 
our  last  race-ball 

Faulk.  Hell  and  the  devil!  There!  there! 
—I  told  you  so!  I  told  you  so!  Oh!  she 
thrives  in  my  absence! — Dancing! — but  her 
whole  feelings  have  been  in  opposition  with 
mine ! — I  have  been  anxious,  silent,  pensive, 
sedentary — my  days  have  been  hours  of 
care,  my  nights  of  watchfulness. — She  has 
been  all  Health!  Spirit!  Laugh!  Song! 
Dance! — Oh!  d— ned,  d — ned  levity! 

Abs.  For  Heaven's  sake!  Faulkland,  don't 
expose  yourself  so. — Suppose  she  has  danced, 
what  then? — Does  not  the  ceremony  of  so- 
ciety often  oblige 

Faulk.  Well,  well,  I'll  contain  myself.— 
Perhaps,  as  you  say— for  form  sake.— What, 
Mr.  Acres,  you  were  praising  Miss  Melville's 
manner  of  dancing  a  minuet — hey? 

Acres.  Oh  I  dare  insure  her  for  that— 
but  what  I  was  going  to  speak  of  was  her 
country  dancing: — Odds  swimmings!  she  has 
such  an  air  with  her! — 

Faulk.  Now  disappointment  on  her! — De- 
fend this,  Absolute,  why  don't  you  defend 
this? — Country-dances!  jiggs,  and  reels! 
Am  I  to  blame  now?  A  minuet  I  could  have 
forgiven — I  should  not  have  minded  that — I 
say  I  should  not  have  regarded  a  minuet — 

but  country-dances!  Z ds!  had  she  made 

one  in  a  cotillon — I  believe  I  could  have  for- 
given even  that — but  to  be  monkey-led  for  a 
night!— to  run  the  gauntlet  thro'  a  string  of 
amorous  palming  puppies ! — to  show  paces  like 
a  managed  filly!— O  Jack,  there  never  can  be 
but  one  man  in  the  world  whom  a  truly 
modest  and  delicate  woman  ought  to  pair 
with  in  a  country-dance;  and  even  then,  the 
rest  of  the  couples  should  be  her  great 
uncles  and  aunts ! 

Abs.  Aye,  to  be  sure !— grand-fathers  and 
grand-mothers ! 

Faulk.  If  there  be  but  one  vicious  mind 
in  the  set,  'twill  spread  like  a  contagion— 
the  action  of  their  pulse  beats  to  the  lasciv- 
ious movement  of  the  jigg — their  quivering, 
warm -breathed  sighs  impregnate  the  very 
air — the  atmosphere  becomes  electrical  to 
love,  and  each  amorous  spark  darts  thro' 
every  link  of  the  chain!— I  must  leave  you — 


I    own     I     am    somewhat    flurried- 
confounded   looby   has  perceived  it. 


ind    that 

[Going. 
hurry    to 


Abs.     Aye    aye,    you    are    in 
throw   yourself   at   Julia's   feet. 

Faulk.     I'm    not   in   a    humor   to   be   trifled 
with. — I    shall    see   her   only    to   upbraid    her. 

[Going. 

Abs.     Nay,  but  stay,  Faulkland,  and  thank 
Mr.  Acres  for  his  good  news. 

Faulk.     D— n  his  news!       [Exit  FAULKLAND. 

371 


Abs.  Ha!  ha!  ha!  Poor  Faulkland!  Five 
minutes  since — "  nothing  on  earth  could 
give  him  a  moment's  uneasiness!" 

Acres.  The  gentleman  wa'n't  angry  at  my 
praising  his  mistress,  was  he? 

Abs.     A   little   jealous,   I   believe,   Bob. 

Acres.  You  don't  say  so?  Ha!  ha!  jeal- 
ous of  me? — that's  a  good  joke. 

Abs.  There's  nothing  strange  in  that, 
Bob:  let  me  tell  you,  that  sprightly  grace 
and  insinuating  manner  of  yours  will  do 
some  mischief  among  the  girls  here. 

Acres.  Ah!  you  joke — ha!  ha !— mischief— 
ha!  ha!  But  you  know  I  am  not  my  own 
property;  my  dear  Lydia  has  forestalled  me. 
— She  could  never  abide  me  in  the  country, 
because  I  used  to  dress  so  badly — but  odds 
frogs  and  tambours!  I  shan't  take  matters 
so  here — now  ancient  madam  has  no  voice 
in  it. — I'll  make  my  old  clothes  know  who's 
master.— I  shall  straightway  cashier  the  hunt- 
ing-frock—and render  my  leather  breeches 
incapable.— My  hair  has  been  in  training 
some  time. 

Abs.     Indeed! 

Acres.  Aye— and  tho'ff  the  side-curls  are 
a  little  restive,  my  hind-part  takes  to  it  very 
kindly. 

Abs.     O,  you'll  polish,  I  doubt  not. 

Acres.  Absolutely  I  propose  so.— Then  if 
I  can  find  out  this  Ensign  Beverley,  odds 
triggers  and  flints!  I'll  make  him  know  the 
difference  o't. 

Abs.  Spoke  like  a  man.— But  pray,  Bob, 
I  observe  you  have  got  an  odd  kind  of  a  new 
method  of  swearing 

Acres.  Ha!  ha!  you've  taken  notice  of  it? 
— 'Tis  genteel,  isn't  it?— I  didn't  invent  it 
myself,  though;  but  a  commander  in  our 
militia — a  great  scholar,  I  assure  you — says 
that  there  is  no  meaning  in  the  common 
oaths,  and  that  nothing  but  their  antiquity 
makes  them  respectable; — because,  he  says, 
the  ancients  would  never  stick  to  an  oath 
or  two,  but  would  say,  by  Jove!  or  by 
Bacchus!  or  by  Mars!  or  by  Venus!  or  by 
Pallas!  according  to  the  sentiment;— so  that 
to  swear  with  propriety,  says  my  little  ma- 
the  "  oath  should  be  an  echo  to  the 
sense";  and  this  we  call  the  oath  referential, 
or  sentimental  swearing — ha!  ha!  ha!  'Tis 
genteel,  isn't  it? 

Abs.  Very  genteel,  and  v^ry  new,  in- 
deed—and I  dare  say  will  supplant  all  other 
figures  of  imprecation. 

Acres.  Aye,  aye,  the  best  terms  will  grow 
obsolete. D— ns  have  had  their  day. 


jor, 


Enter 
Fag.     Sir,     there     is 

FAG. 
a     gentleman     below 
all   I    show   him   into 

be  gone  

the  parlor? 
Abs.     Aye—  you   may. 
Acres.     Well,   I  must 

ACT  II,  Sc.  I. 


THE  RIVALS 


Abs. 
Fag. 


Stay;    who    is   it.    Fag? 
Your  father,  sir. 


Abs.  You  puppy,  why  didn't  you  show  him 
up  directly?  [Exit  FAG. 

Acres.  You  have  business  with  Sir  An- 
thony.— I  expect  a  message  from  Mrs.  Mala- 
prop  at  my  lodgings.— I  have  sent  also  to 
my  dear  friend,  Sir  Lucius  O'Trigger. — Adieu, 
Jack!  We  must  meet  at  night.— Odds  bottles 
and  glasses !  you  shall  give  me  a  dozen 
bumpers  to  little  Lydia. 

Abs.     That   I  will,  with  all  my  heart. 

[Exit    ACRES. 

Abs.  Now  for  a  parental  lecture. — I  hope 
he  has  heard  nothing  of  the  business  that 
has  brought  me  here. — I  wish  the  gout  had 


held    him    fast 
soul! 


in    Devonshire,    with    all    my 


Enter  SIR  ANTHONY. 

Abs.  Sir,  I  am  delighted  to  see  you  here, 
and  looking  so  well!— Your  sudden  arrival 
at  Bath  made  me  apprehensive  for  your 
health. 

Sir  Anth.  Very  apprehensive,  I  dare  say, 
Jack.  —  What,  you  are  recruiting  here, 
hey? 

Abs.     Yes,  sir,  I  am  on  duty. 

Sir  Anth.  Well,  Jack,  I  am  glad  to  see 
you,  tho'  I  did  not  expect  it,  for  I  was 
going  to  write  to  you  on  a  little  matter  of 
business. — Jack,  I  have  been  considering  that 
I  grow  old  and  infirm,  and  shall  probably  not 
trouble  you  long. 

Abs.  Pardon  me,  sir,  I  never  saw  you 
look  more  strong  and  hearty;  and  I  pray 
frequently  that  you  may  continue  so. 

Sir  Anth.  I  hope  your  prayers  may  be 
heard  with  all  my  heart.  Well  then,  Jack, 
I  have  been  considering  that  I  am  so 
strong  and  hearty,  I  may  continue  to  plague 
you  a  long  time. — Now,  Jack,  I  am  sensible 
that  the  income  of  your  commission,  and 
what  I  have  hitherto  allowed  you,  is  but 
a  small  pittance  for  a  lad  of  your  spirit. 

Abs.     Sir,  you  are  very  good. 

Sir  Anth.  And  it  is  my  wish,  while  yet  I 
live,  to  have  my  boy  make  some  figure  in 
the  world. — I  have  resolved,  therefore,  to 
Ax  you  at  once  in  a  noble  independence. 

Abs.  Sir,  your  kindness  overpowers  me. — 
Such  generosity  makes  the  gratitude  of  rea- 
son more  lively  than  the  sensations  even  of 
filial  affection. 

Sir  Anth.  I  am  glad  you  are  so  sensible 
of  my  attention — and  you  shall  be  master  of 
a  large  estate  in  a  few  weeks. 

Abs.  Let  my  future  life,  sir,  speak  my 
gratitude:  I  cannot  express  the  sense  I  have 

of  your  munificence Yet,  sir,  I  presume 

you  would  not  wish  me  to  quit  the  army  ? 

Sir   Anth.     O,   that   shall   be   as   your   wife 


chooses. 


Abs.     My  wife,  sir! 

Sir  Anth.  Aye,  aye, — settle  that  between 
you — settle  that  between  you. 

Abs.     A   wife,   sir,    did   you   say? 

Sir  Anth.  Aye,  a  wife — why,  did  not  I 
mention  her  before  ? 

Abs.     Not  a  word   of   it,   sir. 

Sir  Anth.  Odd  so!— I  mus'n't  forget  her, 
tho'. — Yes,  Jack,  the  independence  I  was 
talking  of  is  by  a  marriage— the  fortune  is 
saddled  with  a  wife. — But  I  suppose  that 
makes  no  difference. 

Abs.     Sir!    sir!— you    amaze    me! 

S*>  Anth.  Why,  what  the  d 1's  the  mat- 
ter with  the  fool?  Just  now  you  were  all 
gratitude  and  duty. 

Abs.  1  was,  sir. — You  talked  to  me  of 
independence  and  a  fortune,  but  not  a  word 
of  a  wife. 

Sir  Anth.  Why — what  difference  does  that 
make?  Odds  life,  sir!  if  you  have  the  estate, 
you  must  take  it  with  the  live  stock  on  It, 
as  it  stands. 

Abs.  If  my  happiness  is  to  be  the  price, 
I  must  beg  leave  to  decline  the  purchase. — 
Pray,  sir,  who  is  the  lady? 

Sir  Anth.  What's  that  to  you,  sir?— 
Come,  give  me  your  promise  to  love,  and  to 
marry  her  directly. 

Abs.  Sure,  sir,  this  is  not  very  reason- 
able, to  summon  my  affections  for  a  lady  I 
know  nothing  of! 

Sir  Anth.  I  am  sure,  sir,  'tis  more  un- 
reasonable in  you  to  object  to  a  lady  you 
know  nothing  of. 

Abs.  Then,  sir,  I  must  tell  you  plain- 
ly that  my  inclinations  are  fixed  on  an- 
other. 

Sir  Anth.  They  are,  are  they?  Well, 
that's  lucky — because  you  will  have  more 
merit  in  your  obedience  to  me. 

Abs.  Sir,  my  heart  is  engaged  to  an 
angel. 

Sir  Anth.  Then  pray  let  it  send  an  excuse. 

It  is  very  sorry — but  business  prevents 

its  waiting  on  her. 

Abs.     But    my    vows    are    pledged    to    her. 

Sir  Anth.  Let  her  foreclose,  Jack;  let 
her  foreclose;  they  are  not  worth  redeeming: 
besides,  you  have  the  angel's  vows  in  ex- 
change, I  suppose;  so  there  can  be  no  loss 
there. 

Abs.  You  must  excuse  me,  sir,  if  I  tell 
you,  once  for  all,  that  in  this  point  I  can- 
not obey  you. 

Sir    Anth.     Hark'ee,    Jack; — I 


you  for  some  time  with  patience 


have    heard 
-I  have  been 


cool — quite  cool; — but  take  care — you  know 
I  am  compliance  itself — when  I  am  not 
thwarted; — no  one  more  easily  led — when  I 
have  my  own  way;— but  don't  put  me  in  a 
frenzy. 

Abs.     Sir,     I     must     repeat     it — in     this     I 


cannot  obey  you. 

372 


THE  RIVALS 


ACT  II,  Sc.  II. 


Sir  Anth.  Now,  d — n  me!  if  ever  I  call 
you  Jack  again  while  I  live! 

Abs.     Nay,   sir,    but   hear   me. 

Sir  Anth.  Sir,  I  won't  hear  a  word — not 
a  word !  not  one  word !  so  give  me  your 
promise  by  a  nod — and  I'll  tell  you  what, 
Jack — I  mean,  you  dog — if  you  don't,  by 

Abs.  What,  sir,  promise  to  link  myself  to 
some  mass  of  ugliness!  to 

Sir  Anth.     Z ds!   sirrah!   the   lady    shall 

be  as  ugly  as  I  choose:  she  shall  have  a 
hump  on  each  shoulder;  she  shall  be  as 
crooked  as  the  Crescent;  her  one  eye  shall 
roll  like  the  Bull's  in  Coxe's  museum— she 
shall  have  a  skin  like  a  mummy,  and  the 
beard  of  a  Jew — she  shall  be  all  this,  sirrah ! 
—yet  I'll  make  you  ogle  her  all  day,  and 
sit  up  all  night  to  write  sonnets  on  her 
beauty. 

Abs.     This 
deed! 


is    reason    and    moderation    in- 


Sir  Anth.  None  of  your  sneering,  puppy! 
no  grinning,  jackanapes  ! 

Abs.  Indeed,  sir,  I  never  was  in  a  worse 
humor  for  mirth  in  my  life. 

Sir  Anth.  'Tis  false,  sir!  1  know  you  are 
laughing  in  your  sleeve:  I  know  you'll  grin 
when  I  am  gone,  sirrah! 

Abs.  Sir,  I  hope  I  know  my  duty  bet- 
ter. 

Sir  Anth.  None  of  your  passion,  sir!  none 
of  your  violence!  if  you  please.  —  It  won't  do 
with  me,  I  promise  you. 

Abs.  Indeed,  sir,  I  never  was  cooler  in 
my  life. 

Sir  Anth.  'Tis  a  confounded  lie!—  I  know 
you  are  in  a  passion  in  your  heart;  I  know 
you  are,  you  hypocritical  young  dog!  But 
it  won't  do. 

Abs.     Nay,  sir,  upon  my  word. 

Sir  Anth.  So  you  will  fly  out!  Can't  you 
be  cool,  like  me?  What  the  devil  good  can 
passion  do!  —  Passion  is  of  no  service,  you  im- 
pudent, insolent,  overbearing  reprobate!— 
There  you  sneer  again  !  —  don't  provoke  me  !  — 
But  you  rely  upon  the  mildness  of  my  temper 
—  you  do,  you  dog!  you  play  upon  the  weak- 
ness of  my  disposition!  Yet  take  care  —  the 
patience  of  a  saint  may  be  overcome  at  last! 
—but  mark!  I  give  you  six  hours  and  a 
half  to  consider  of  this:  if  you  then  agree, 
without  any  condition,  to  do  every  thing  on 
earth  that  I  choose,  why  —  confound  you!  I 
may  in  time  forgive  you  --  If  not,  z  -  ds! 
don't  enter  the  same  hemisphere  with  me! 
don't  dare  to  breathe  the  same  air,  or  use 
the  same  light  with  me;  but  get  an  at- 
mosphere and  a  sun  of  your  own!  I'll  strip 
you  of  your  commission;  I'll  lodge  a  five- 
and-threepence  in  the  hands  of  trustees,  and 
you  shall  live  on  the  interest.—  I'll  disown 
you,  I'll  disinherit  you,  I'll  unget  you!  and— 
d  —  n  me,  if  ever  I  call  you  Jack  again! 

[Exit  SIR  ANTHONY. 


ABSOLUTE,   solus. 

Abs.  Mild,  gentle,  considerate  father— I 
kiss  your  hands.— What  a  tender  method  of 
giving  his  opinion  in  these  matters  Sir 
Anthony  has!  I  dare  not  trust  him  with  the 
truth.— I  wonder  what  old  wealthy  hag  it  is 
that  he  wants  to  bestow  on  me!— Yet  he 
married  himself  for  love!  and  was 


panion ! 


a    gay 


n    his 
corn- 


youth    a    bold    intriguer,    and 

Enter   FAG. 

Fag.  Assuredly,  sir,  our  father  is  wrath 
to  a  degree.  He  comes  down  stairs  eight 
or  ten  steps  at  a  time — muttering,  growling, 
and  thumping  the  bannisters  all  the  way:  I, 
and  the  cook's  dog,  stand  bowing  at  the 
door— rap!  he  gives  me  a  stroke  on  the  head 
with  his  cane;  bids  me  carry  that  to  my 
master;  then  kicking  the  poor  turnspit  into 
the  area,  d— ns  us  all  for  a  puppy  triumvirate  I 
—Upon  my  credit,  sir,  were  I  in  your  place, 
and  found  my  father  such  very  bad  company, 
I  should  certainly  drop  his  acquaintance. 

Abs.  Cease  your  impertinence,  sir,  at 
present.— Did  you  come  in  for  nothing  more?' 
—Stand  out  of  the  way! 

[Pushes  him  aside,   and   exit. 

FAG,  solus. 

Fag.  Soh!  Sir  Anthony  trims  my  master. 
He  is  afraid  to  reply  to  his  father— then 
vents  his  spleen  on  poor  Fag! — When  one  is. 
vexed  by  one  person,  to  revenge  one's  self 
on  another  who  happens  to  come  in  the 
way— is  the  vilest  injustice!  Ah!  it  shows 
the  worst  temper— the  basest 

Enter  ERRAND-BOY. 

Boy.  Mr.  Fag!  Mr.  Fag!  your  master 
calls  you. 

Fag.  Well,  you  little,  dirty  puppy,  you 
need  not  haul  so!— The  meanest  disposition! 
the 

Boy.     Quick,  quick,  Mr.  Fag! 

Fag.  Quick,  quick,  you  impudent  jacka- 
napes! am  I  to  be  commanded  by  you  too? 
you  little,  impertinent,  insolent,  kitchen- 
bred [Exit,  kicking  and  beating  him. 

SCENE  II 

The  North  Parade. 
Enter  LUCY. 

Lucy.  So — I  shall  have  another  rival  to 
add  to  my  mistress's  list — Captain  Absolute. 

However,   I   shall  not  enter  his   name  till 

my  pur.«<;  has  received  notice  in  form.  Poor 
Acres  is  dismissed! — Well,  I  have  done  him 
a  last  friendly  office  in  letting  him  know 
that  Beverley  was  here  before  him. — Sir 
Lucius  is  generally  more  punctual  when  he 


373 


ACT  II,  Sc.  II. 


THE  RIVALS 


expects  to  bear  from  his  dear  Dalia,  as  he 
calls  her:— I  wonder  he's  not  here! — I  have  a 
little  scruple  of  conscience  from  this  deceit; 
tho'  I  should  not  be  paid  so  well,  if  my  hero 
knew  that  Delia  was  near  fifty,  and  her  own 
mistress. — I  could  not  have  thought  he  would 
have  been  so  nice,  when  there's  a  golden 
egg  in  the  case,  as  to  care  whether  he  has 
it  from  a  pullet  or  an  old  hen! 

Enter    SIR    Lucius    O'TRIGGER. 

Sir  Luc.  Hah !  my  little  embassadress — 
upon  my  conscience,  I  have  been  looking  for 
you.  I  have  been  on  the  South  Parade  this 
half-hour. 

Lucy.  [Speaking  simply']  O  gemini !  and  I 
have  been  waiting  for  your  worship  here 
on  the  North. 

Sir  Luc.  Faith! — may  be  that  was  the 
reason  we  did  not  meet;  and  it  is  very  comi- 
cal, too,  how  you  could  go  out  and  I  not  see 
you — for  I  was  only  taking1  a  nap  at  the 
Parade  Coffee-house,  and  I  chose  the  window 
on  purpose  that  I  might  not  miss  you. 

Lucy.  My  stars!  Now  I'd  wager  a  six- 
pence I  went  by  while  you  were  asleep. 

Sir  Luc.  Sure  enough  it  must  have  been 
so — and  I  never  dreamt  it  was  so  late,  till 
I  waked.  Well,  but  my  little  girl,  have  you 
got  nothing  for  me? 

Lucy.  Yes,  but  I  have: — I've  got  a  letter 
for  you  in  my  pocket. 

Sir  Luc.  O  faith!  I  guessed  you  weren't 
come  empty-handed.— Well — let  me  see  what 
the  dear  creature  says. 

Lucy.     There,  Sir  Lucius. 

[Gives  him  a  letter. 

Sir  Luc.  [Reads]  "  Sir — there  is  often  a 
sudden  incentive  impulse  in  love,  that  has 
a  greater  induction  than  years  of  domestic 
combination:  such  was  the  commotion  I  felt 
at  the  first  superfluous  view  of  Sir  Lucius 
O'Trigger." — Very  pretty,  upon  my  word. — 
"  As  my  motive  is  interested,  you  may  be 
assured  my  love  shall  never  be  miscella- 
neous." Very  well.  "  Female  punctuation 
forbids  me  to  say  more;  yet  let  me  add, 
that  it  will  give  me  joy  infallible  to  find 
Sir  Lucius  worthy  the  last  criterion  of  my 
affections.  —  Yours,  while  meretricious  — 
DELIA."  Upon  my  conscience!  Lucy,  your 
lady  is  a  great  mistress  of  language.— Faith, 
she's  quite  the  queen  of  the  dictionary! — 


for   the  devil  a   word  dare  reft 


iming  at 


her  call — tho'  one  would  think  it  was  quite 
out  of  hearing. 

Lucy.    Aye,  sir,  a  lady  of  her  experience 

Sir  Luc.     Experience!  what,  at  seventeen? 

Lucy.  O  true,  sir — but  then  she  reads  so — 
my  stars!  how  she  will  read  off-hand! 

Sir  Luc.  Faith,  she  must  be  very  deep 
read  to  write  this  way — tho'  she  is  rather  an 
arbitrary  writer  too — for  here  are  a  great 
many  poor  words  pressed  into  the  service  of 


this  note,  that  would  get  their  habeas  corpus 
from  any  court  in  Christendom. How- 
ever, when  affection  guides  the  pen,  Lucy, 
he  must  be  a  brute  who  finds  fault  with  the 
style. 

Lucy.  Ah!  Sir  Lucius,  if  you  were  to 
hear  how  she  talks  of  you! 

Sir  Luc.  O  tell  her  I'll  make  her  the 
best  husband  in  the  world,  and  Lady  O'Trig- 
ger into  the  bargain!— But  we  must  get  the 
old  gentlewoman's  consent — and  do  every- 
thing fairly. 

Lucy.  Nay,  Sir  Lucius,  I  thought  you 
wa'n't  rich  enough  to  be  so  nice! 

Sir  Luc.  Upon  my  word,  young  woman, 
you  have  hit  it:— I  am  so  poor  that  I  can't 
afford  to  do  a  dirty  action.— If  I  did  not 
want  money  I'd  steal  your  mistress  and 
her  fortune  with  a  great  deal  of  pleasure.— 
However,  my  pretty  girl  [Gives  her  money"], 
here's  a  little  something  to  buy  you  a  rib- 
band; and  meet  me  in  the  evening,  and  I'll 
give  you  an  answer  to  this.  So,  hussy,  take 
a  kiss  before-hand  to  put  you  in  mind. 

[Kisses  her. 

Lucy.  O  lud!  Sir  Lucius— I  never  seed 
such  a  gemman !  My  lady  won't  like  you 
if  you're  so  impudent. 

Sir     Luc.     Faith     she     will,     Lucy That 

same pho!     what's     the     name     of     it? — 

Modesty! is    a    quality    in    a    lover    more 

praised  by  the  women  than  liked;  so,  if  your 
mistress  asks  you  whether  Sir  Lucius  ever 
gave  you  a  kiss,  tell  her  fifty — my  dear. 

Lucy.  What,  would  you  have  me  tell  her 
a  lie? 

Sir  Luc.  Ah,  then,  you  baggage!  I'll 
make  it  a  truth  presently.  [Kisses  her. 

Lucy.  For  shame  now;  here  is  some  one 
coming. 

Sii-  Luc.  O  faith,  I'll  quiet  your  con- 
science. 

[Sees  FAG. — Exit,  humming  a  tune. 

Enter   FAG. 
So,   so,   ma'am.     I   humbly    beg  par- 

O    lud!— now,    Mr.    Fag— you    flurry 


Fag. 
don. 

Lucy. 
one  so. 

Fag. 


Come,    come,    Lucy,    here's    no    one 


by— so  a  little  less  simplicity,  with  a  grain 

or  two  more  sincerity,  if  you  please. You 

play  false  with  us,  madam. — I  saw  you  give 
the  baronet  a  letter. — My  master  shall  know 
this — and  if  he  don't  call  him  out— I  will. 

Lucy.  Ha!  ha!  ha!  you  gentlemen's  gen- 
tlemen are  so  hasty. — That  letter  was  from 
Mrs.  Malaprop,  simpleton. — She  is  taken 
with  Sir  Lucius's  address. 

Fac,.  What  tastes  some  people  have!— 
Why,  I  suppose  I  have  walked  by  her  window 

an  hundred  times. But  what  says  our 

young  lady?  Any  message  to  my  master? 

Lucy.     Sad  news,  Mr.  Fag!— A  worse  rival 


374 


THE  RIVALS 


ACT  III,  Sc.  I. 


than  Acres ! — Sir  Anthony  Absolute  has  pro- 
posed his  son. 

Fag.     What,    Captain    Absolute? 

Lucy.     Even    so. — I    overheard    it    all. 

Fag.  Ha!  ha!  ha! — very  good,  faith. — 
Good-bye,  Lucy,  I  must  away  with  this 
news. 

Lucy.  Well, — you  may  laugh — but  it  is 
true,  I  assure  you.  [Going}  But— Mr.  Fag — 
tell  your  master  not  to  be  cast  down  by 
this. 

Fag.     O,    he'll   be    so    disconsolate! 

Lucy.  And  charge  him  not  to  think  of 
quarrelling  with  young  Absolute. 

Fag.     Never  fear! — never  fear! 

Lucy.  Be  sure — bid  him  keep  up  his 
spirits. 

Fag,       We  will — we  will.    [Exeunt  severally. 

ACT  III 

SCENE  I 

The  North  Parade. 
Enter  ABSOLUTE. 

Abs.  Tis  just  as  Fag  told  me,  indeed.— 
Whimsical  enough,  faith!  My  father  wants 
to  force  me  to  marry  the  very  girl  I  am 
plotting  to  run  away  with!— He  must  not 
know  of  my  connection  with  her  yet  a-while. 
— He  has  too  summary  a  method  of  pro- 
ceeding in  these  matters — and  Lydia  shall 
not  yet  lose  her  hopes  of  an  elopement. 
However,  I'll  read  my  recantation  instantly. 
— My  conversion  is  something  sudden,  in- 
deed— but  I  can  assure  him  it  is  very  sincere. 

So,   so— here  he  comes.— He  looks  plaguy 

gruff.  [Steps    aside. 

Enter  SIR  ANTHONY. 

Sir  Anth.  No— I'll  die  sooner  than  for- 
give him. — Die,  did  I  say?  I'll  live  these 
fifty  years  to  plague  him. — At  our  last 
meeting,  his  impudence  had  almost  put  me 
out  of  temper.— An  obstinate,  passionate, 
self-willed  boy!— Who  can  he  take  after? 
This  is  my  return  for  getting  him  before  all 
his  brothers  and  sisters!— for  putting  him, 
at  twelve  years  old,  into  a  marching  regi- 
ment, and  allowing  him  fifty  pounds  a-year, 
beside  his  pay  ever  since!— But  I  have  done 
with  him;— he's  any  body's  son  for  me.— I 
never  will  see  him  more,— never— never- 
never— ^never  ! 

Abs.     Now    for   a   penitential   face. 

Sir  Anth.     Fellow,  get  out  of  my  way. 

Abs.  Sir,  you  see  a  penitent  before 
you. 

Sir  Anth.  I  see  an  impudent  scoundrel 
before  me. 

Abs.  A  sincere  penitent.— I  am  come,  sir, 
to  acknowledge  my  error,  and  to  submit 
entirely  to  your  will. 


Sir  Anth.     What's  that? 

Abs.  I  have  been  revolving,  and  reflect- 
ing, and  considering  on  your  past  goodness, 
and  kindness,  and  condescension  to  me. 

Sir  Anth.     Well,  sir? 

Abs.  I  have  been  likewise  weighing  and 
balancing  what  you  were  pleased  to  men- 
tion concerning  duty,  and  obedience,  and 
authority. 

Sir   Anth.     Well,   puppy? 

Abs.  Why  then,  sir,  the  result  of  my 
reflections  is— a  resolution  to  sacrifice  every 
inclination  of  my  own  to  your  satisfaction. 

Sir  Anth.  Why,  now  you  talk  sense — 
absolute  sense — I  never  heard  any  thing 

more  sensible  in  my  life. Confound  you, 

you  shall  be  Jack  again! 

Abs.     I   am   happy  in   the  appellation. 

Sir  Anth.  Why  then,  Jack,  my  dear  Jack, 
I  will  now  inform  you — who  the  lady  really 
is. — Nothing  but  your  passion  and  violence, 
you  silly  fellow,  prevented  my  telling  you 
at  first.  Prepare,  Jack,  for  wonder  and  rap- 
ture!— prepare! What  think  you  of  Miss 

Lydia  Languish  ? 

Abs.  Languish!  What,  the  Languishes 
of  Worcestershire? 

Sir  Anth.  Worcestershire!  No.  Did  you 
never  meet  Mrs.  Malaprop  and  her  niece, 
Miss  Languish,  who  came  into  our  country 
just  before  you  were  last  ordered  to  your 
regiment? 

Abs.  Malaprop!  Languish!  I  don't  re- 
member ever  to  have  heard  the  names  be- 
fore. Yet,  stay — I  think  I  do  recollect  some- 
thing.  Languish!  Languish!  She  squints, 

don't  she?— A  little,  red-haired  girl? 

Sir  Anth.  Squints?— A  red-haired  girl!— 
Z ds,  no! 

Abs.  Then  I  must  have  forgot;  it  can't 
be  the  same  person. 

Sir  Anth.  Jack!  Jack!  what  think  you 
of  blooming,  love-breathing  seventeen? 

Abs.  As  to  that,  sir,  I  am  quite  indif- 
ferent.— If  I  can  please  you  in  the  matter, 
'tis  all  I  desire. 

Sir  Anth.  Nay,  but  Jack,  such  eyes!  such 
eyes !  so  innocently  wild !  so  bashfully  irreso- 
lute! Not  a  glance  but  speaks  and  kindles 
some  thought  of  love!  Then,  Jack,  her 
cheeks!  her  cheeks,  Jack!  so  deeply  blush- 
ing at  the  insinuations  of  her  tell-tale  eyes! 
Then,  Jack,  her  lips!— O  Jack,  lips  smiling  at 
their  own  discretion;  and  if  not  smiling, 
more  sweetly  pouting;  more  lovely  in  sul- 
lenness ! 

Abs.  [Aside]  That's  she,  indeed.— Well 
done,  old  gentleman! 

Sir  Anth.  Then,  Jack,  her  neck!— O  Jack! 
Jack! 

Abs.  And  which  is  to  be  mine,  sir,  the 
niece  or  the  aunt? 

Sir  Anth.  Why,  you  unfeeling,  insensible 
puppy,  I  despise  you!  When  I  was  of  your 


375 


ACT  III,  Sc.  II. 


•age,  such  a  description  would  have  made  me 
fly  like  a  rocket!  The  aunt,  indeed!— Odds 
life!  when  I  ran  away  with  your  mother,  I 
would  not  have  touched  any  thing  old  or 
ugly  to  gain  an  empire. 

Abs.     Not    to   please    your    father,    sir? 

Sir      Antli.      To      please      my      father! 

Z ds!    not    to    please O,    my     father!— 

Oddso !— yes— yes !  if  my  father,  indeed,  had 
desired — that's  quite  another  matter.— Tho' 
he  wa'n't  the  indulgent  father  that  I  am, 
Jack. 

Abs.     I  dare  say  not,  sir. 
Sir    An tli.     But,    Jack,    you    are    not    sorry 
•to   find   your   mistress   is    so   beautiful? 

Abs.  Sir,  I  repeat  it;  if  I  please  you  in 
this  affair,  'tis  all  I  desire.  Not  that  I 
think  a  woman  the  worse  for  being  hand- 
some; but,  sir,  if  you  please  to  recollect, 
you  before  hinted  something  about  a  hump 
or  two,  one  eye,  and  a  few  more  graces  of 
that  kind. — Now,  without  being  very  nice, 
I  own  I  should  rather  choose  a  wife  of  mine 
to  have  the  usual  number  of  limbs,  and  a 
limited  quantity  of  back:  and  tho'  one  eye 
may  be  very  agreeable,  yet  as  the  prejudice 
has  always  run  in  favor  of  two,  1  would  not 
wish  to  affect  a  singularity  in  that  article. 
Sir  Anth.  What  a  phlegmatic  sot  it  is! 
Why,  sirrah,  you're  an  anchorite! — a  vile, 
insensible  stock. — You  a  soldier! — you're  a 
walking  block,  fit  only  to  dust  the  com- 
pany's regimentals  on!— Odds  life!  I've  a 
great  mind  to  marry  the  girl  myself! 

Abs.  I  am  entirely  at  your  disposal,  sir; 
if  you  should  think  of  addressing  Miss 
Languish  yourself,  I  suppose  you  would 
have  me  marry  the  aunt;  or  if  you  should 
change  your  mind,  and  take  the  old  lady— 
'tis  the  same  to  me — I'll  marry  the  niece. 
Sir  Anth.  Upon  my  word,  Jack,  thou'rt 

either     a     very     great     hypocrite,     or but 

come,  I  know  your  indifference  on  such  a 
subject  must  be  all  a  lie — I'm  sure  it  must — 
come,  now — d — n  your  demure  face! — come, 
confess,  Jack — you  have  been  lying — ha'n't 
you?  You  have  been  lying,  hey?  I'll  never 
forgive  you,  if  you  ha'n't: — so  now,  own, 
my  dear  Jack,  you  have  been  playing  the 
hypocrite,  hey? — I'll  never  forgive  you  if 
you  ha'n't  been  lying  and  playing  the  hypo- 
crite. 

Abs.  I'm  sorry,  sir,  that  the  respect  and' 
duty  which  I  bear  to  you  should  be  so  mis- 
taken. 

Sir  Anth.  Hang  your  respect  and  duty!' 
But  come  along  with  me,  I'll  write  a  note 
to  Mrs.  Malaprop,  and  you  shall  visit  the 
lady  directly. 

Abs.     Where   does   she   lodge,   sir? 
Sir  Anth.     What  a  dull  question! — Only  on: 
the  Grove  here. 

Abs.  O!  then  I  can  call  on  her  in  my 
way  to  the  coffee-house. 


Sir  Anth.  In  your  way  to  the  coffee- 
house! You'll  set  your  heart  down  in  your 
way  to  the  coffee-house,  hey?  Ah!  you 
leaden-nerved,  wooden-hearted  dolt!  But 
come  along,  you  shall  see  her  directly;  her 
eyes  shall  be  the  Promethian  torch  to  you— 
come  along.  I'll  never  forgive  you  if  you 
don't  come  back  stark  mad  with  rapture 
and  impatience. — If  you  don't,  egad,  I'll 
marry  the  girl  myself!  [Exeunt. 

SCENE  II 

JULIA'S    Dressing-Room. 
FAULKLAND,  solus. 

Faulk.  They  told  me  Julia  would  return 
directly;  wonder  she  is  not  yet  come!— How 
mean  does  this  captious,  unsatisfied  temper 
of  mine  appear  to  my  cooler  judgment! 
Yet  I  know  not  that  I  indulge  it  in  any  other 
point: — but  on  this  one  subject,  and  to  this 
one  object,  whom  I  think  I  love  beyond  my 
life,  I  am  ever  ungenerously  fretful,  and 
madly  capricious ! — I  am  conscious  of  it — 
yet  I  cannot  correct  myself!  What  tender, 
honest  joy  sparkled  in  her  eyes  when  we 
met! — How  delicate  was  the  warmth  of  her 
expressions!—!  was  ashamed  to  appear  less 
happy — though  I  had  come  resolved  to  wear 
a  face  of  coolness  and  upbraiding.  Sir  An- 
thony's presence  prevented  my  proposed  ex- 
postulations;— yet  I  must  be  satisfied  that 
she  has  not  been  so  very  happy  in  my 
absence. — She  is  coming! — Yes! — I  know  the 
mmbleness  of  her  tread  when  she  thinks 
her  impatient  Faulkland  counts  the  mo- 
ments of  her  stay. 

Enter  JULIA. 

Jut.  I  had  not  hoped  to  see  you  again  so 
soon. 

Faulk.  Could  I,  Julia,  be  contented  with 
my  first  welcome — restrained  as  we  were  by 
the  presence  of  a  third  person? 

Jill.  O  Faulkland,  when  your  kindness 
can  make  me  thus  happy,  let  me  not  think 
that  I  discovered  more  coolness  in  your  first 
salutation  than  my  long-hoarded  joy  could 
have  presaged. 

Faulk.  'Twas  but  your  fancy,  Julia. — I 
was  rejoiced  to  see  you — to  see  you  in  such 
health. — Sure  I  had  no  cause  for  coldness? 

Jul.  Nay  then,  I  see  you  have  taken 
something  ill. — You  must  not  conceal  from 
me  what  it  is. 

Faulk.  Well  then— shall  I  own  to  you?— 
but  you  will  despise  me,  Julia — nay,  I  despise 

myself  for  it. Yet  I  will  own,  that  my 

joy  at  hearing  of  your  health  and  arrival 
here,  by  your  neighbor  Acres,  was  some- 
thing damped  by  his  dwelling  much  on  the 
high  spirits  you  had  enjoyed  in  Devonshire 
— on  your  mirth — your  singing — dancing,  and 


37B 


THE  RIVALS 


ACT  III,  Sc.  II. 


I  know  not  what!— For  such  is  my  temper, 
Julia,  that  I  should  regard  every  mirthful 
moment  in  your  absence  as  a  treason  to 
constancy. — The  mutual  tear  that  steals 
down  the  cheek  of  parting-  lovers  is  a  com- 
pact that  no  smile  shall  live  there  till  they 
meet  again. 

Jul.  Must  I  never  cease  to  tax  my  Faulk- 
land  with  this  teasing  minute  caprice? — 
Can  the  idle  reports  of  a  silly  boor  weigh 
in  your  breast  against  my  tried  affection? 

Faulk.  They  have  no  weight  with  me, 
Julia:  no,  no — I  am  happy  if  you  have  been 
so— yet  only  say  that  you  did  not  sing  with 
mirth — say  that  you  thought  of  Faulkland  in 
the  dance. 

Jnl.  I  never  can  be  happy  in  your 
absence. — If  I  wear  a  countenance  of  con- 
tent, it  is  to  show  that  my  mind  holds 

no    doubt    of    my    Faulkland's    truth. If    I 

seemed  sad — it  were  to  make  malice  triumph, 
and  say  that  I  had  fixed  my  heart  on  one 
who  left  me  to  lament  his  roving,  and  my 
own  credulity. — Believe  me,  Faulkland,  I 
mean  not  to  upbraid  you  when  I  say  that 
I  have  often  dressed  sorrow  in  smiles,  lest 
my  friends  should  guess  whose  unkindness 
had  caused  my  tears. 

Faulk.  You  were  ever  all  goodness  to  me. 
— O,  I  am  a  brute  when  I  but  admit  a  doubt 
of  your  true  constancy! 

Jul.  If  ever,  without  such  cause  from 
you,  as  I  will  not  suppose  possible,  you 
find  my  affections  veering  but  a  point,  may 
I  become  a  proverbial  scoff  for  levity  and 
base  ingratitude. 

Faulk.  Ah!  Julia,  that  last  word  is  grat- 
ing to  me.  I  would  I  had  no  title  to  your 
gratitude!  Search  your  heart,  Julia;  per- 
haps what  you  have  mistaken  for  love,  is 
but  the  warm  effusion  of  a  too  thankful 
heart! 

Jul.     For   what   quality   must   I   love  you? 

Faulk.  For  no  quality!  To  regard  me 
for  any  quality  of  mind  or  understanding 
were  only  to  esteem  me.  And  for  person — 
I  have  often  wished  myself  deformed,  to  be 
convinced  that  I  owed  no  obligation  there 
for  any  part  of  your  affection. 

Jul.  Where  Nature  has  bestowed  a  show 
of  nice  attention  in  the  features  of  a  man, 
he  should  laugh  at  it  as  misplaced.  I  have 
seen  men  who  in  this  vain  article  perhaps 
might  rank  above  you;  but  my  heart  has 
never  asked  my  eyes  if  it  were  so  or  not. 

Faulk.  Now  this  is  not  well  from  you, 
Julia. — I  despise  person  in  a  man.— Yet  if 
you  loved  me  as  I  wish,  though  I  were  an 
/Ethiop,  you'd  think  none  so  fair. 

Jul.  I  see  you  are  determined  to .  be  un- 
kind.—The  contract  which  my  poor  father 
bound  us  in 
privilege. 


gives  you   more   than  a  lover's 


Faulk.     Again,   Julia,   you   raise   ideas   that 


feed  and  justify  my  doubts. — I  would  not 
have  been  more  free — no — I  am  proud  of  my 
restraint. Yet — yet — perhaps  your  high  re- 
spect alone  for  this  solemn  compact  has 
fettered  your  inclinations,  which  else  had 
made  worthier  choice. — How  shall  I  be  sure, 
had  you  remained  unbound  in  thought  and 
promise,  that  I  should  still  have  been  the 
object  of  your  persevering  love? 

Jul.  Then  try  me  now. — Let  us  be  free 
as  strangers  as  to  what  is  past: — my  heart 
will  not  feel  more  liberty! 

Faulk.  There  now!  so  hasty,  Julia!  so 
anxious  to  be  free! — If  your  love  for  me  were 
fixed  and  ardent,  you  would  not  loose  your 
hold,  even  tho'  I  wished  it! 

Jul.  O,  you  torture  me  to  the  heart!— I 
cannot  bear  it. 

Faulk.  I  do  not  mean  to  distress  you. — 
If  I  loved  you  less  I  should  never  give  you 
an  uneasy  moment. — But  hear  me. — All  my 
fretful  doubts  arise  from  this — Women  are 
not  used  to  weigh,  and  separate  the  motives 
of  their  affections: — the  cold  dictates  of 
prudence,  gratitude,  or  filial  duty,  may 
sometimes  be  mistaken  for  the  pleadings 

of    the    heart. 1    would    not    boast — yet    let 

me  say  that  I  have  neither  age,  person,  or 
character  to  found  dislike  on; — my  fortune 
such  as  few  ladies  could  be  charged  with 
indiscretion  in  the  match. — O  Julia!  when 
Love  receives  such  countenance  from  I'ru- 
dence,  nice  minds  will  be  suspicious  of  its 
birth. 

Jul.  I  know  not  whither  your  insinua- 
tions would  tend: — as  they  seem  pressing 
to  insult  me — I  will  spare  you  the  regret 
of  having  done  so. — I  have  given  you  no 
cause  for  this!  [Exit  in  tears. 

Faulk.     In  tears!    Stay,  Julia:  stay  but  for 

a  moment. The  door  is   fastened! — Julia! — 

my  soul — but  for  one  moment. — I  hear  her 
sobbing! — 'Sdeath!  what  a  brute  am  I  to 
use  her  thus!  Yet  stay) — Aye — she  is  com- 
ing now. — How  little  resolution  there  is  in 
woman ! — How  a  few  soft  words  can  turn 

them! No,      faith! — she      is      not      coming 

either! Why,  Julia— my  love — say  but  that 

you  forgive  me — come  but  to  tell  me  that. — 
Now,  this  is  being  too  resentful.— Stay ! 
she  is  coming  too — I  thought  she  would— 
no  steadiness  in  any  thing!  her  going  away 
must  have  been  a  mere  trick  then. — She 
sha'n't  see  that  I  was  hurt  by  it.— I'll  affect 
indifference. — [Hums  a  tune:  then  listens] — 
No — Z — ds!  she's  not  coming!— nor  don't  in- 
tend it,  I  suppose. — This  is  not  steadiness, 
but  obstinacy!  Yet  I  deserve  it.— What,  after 
so  long  an  absence  to  quarrel  with  her  ten- 
derness!—'twas  barbarous  and  unmanly!— 
I  should  be  ashamed  to  see  her  now. — I'll 


wait    till    her    ji 


it     is     abated— 


and    when    I    distress    her    so    again,    may    I 
lose   her   for  ever!  and   be   linked  instead   to 


377 


ACT  III,  Sc.  III. 


THE  RIVALS 


some  antique  virago,  whose  gnawing  pas- 
sions, and  long-hoarded  spleen  shall  make 
me  curse  my  folly  half  the  day,  and  all  the 
night!  {Exit. 

SCENE  III 

MRS.    MALAPROP'S  Lodgings. 
MRS.    MALAPROP,    and    CAPTAIN    ABSOLUTE. 

Mrs.  Mai.  Your  being  Sir  Anthony's  son, 
Captain,  would  itself  be  a  sufficient  accom- 
modation;—but  from  the  ingenuity  of  your 
appearance,  I  am  convinced  you  deserve  the 
character  here  given  of  you. 

Abs.  Permit  me  to  say,  madam,  that  as 
I  never  yet  have  had  the  pleasure  of  seeing 
Miss  Languish,  my  principal  inducement  in 
this  affair  at  present  is  the  honor  of  being 
allied  to  Mrs.  Malaprop;  of  whose  intel- 
lectual accomplishments,  elegant  manners, 
and  unaffected  learning,  no  tongue  is  silent. 

Mrs.  Mai.  Sir,  you  do  me  infinite  hon- 
or!— I  beg,  Captain,  you'll  be  seated. — 
[5«f]— Ah!  few  gentlemen  now  a  days  know 
how  to  value  the  ineffectual  qualities  in  a 
woman!— few  think  how  a  little  knowledge 
becomes  a  gentlewoman!  Men  have  no 
sense  now  but  for  the  worthless  flower, 
beauty ! 

Abs.  It  is  but  too  true,  indeed,  ma'am. — 
Yet  I  fear  our  ladies  should  share  the  blame — 
they  think  our  admiration  of  beauty  so  great, 
that  knowledge  in  them  would  be  superflu- 
ous. Thus,  like  garden-trees,  they  seldom 
show  fruits  till  time  has  robbed  them  of 
the  more  specious  blossom. — Few,  like  Mrs. 
Malaprop  and  the  orange-tree,  are  rich  in 
both  at  once! 

Mrs.  Mai.  Sir — you  overpower  me  with 
good-breeding.— He  is  the  very  pine-apple 
of  politeness! — You  are  not  ignorant,  Cap- 
tain, that  this  giddy  girl  has  somehow  con- 
trived to  fix  her  affections  on  a  beggarly, 
strolling,  eaves-dropping  Ensign,  whom 
none  of  us  have  seen,  and  nobody  knows 
any  thing  of. 

Abs.  O,  I  have  heard  the  silly  affair  be- 
fore.— I'm  not  at  all  prejudiced  against  her 
on  that  account. 

Mrs.  Mai.  You  are  very  good,  and  very 
considerate,  Captain. — I  am  sure  I  have  done 
every  thing  in  my  power  since  I  exploded 
the  affair!  Long  ago  I  laid  my  positive 
conjunction  on  her  never  to  think  on  the 
fellow  again; — I  have  since  laid  Sir  An- 
thony's preposition  before  her; — but,  I'm 
sorry  to  say,  she  seems  resolved  to  decline 
every  particle  that  I  enjoin  her. 

Abs.  It  must  be  very  distressing,  in- 
deed, ma'am. 

Mrs.  Mai.  It  gives  me  the  hydrostatics 
to  such  a  degree!— I  thought  she  had  per- 
sisted from  corresponding  with  him;  but 


behold  this  very  day  I  have  interceded  an- 
other letter  from  the  fellow!  I  believe  I 
have  it  in  my  pocket. 

Abs.    O    the    devil!    my    last    note.    [Aside. 

Mrs.   Mai.     Aye,    here    it    is. 

Abs.  Aye,  my  note,  indeed!  O  the  little 
traitress  Lucy.  [Aside. 

Mrs.  Mai.  There,  perhaps  you  may  know 
the  writing.  [Gives  him  the  letter. 

Abs.  I  think  I  have  seen  the  hand  be- 
fore.— Yes,  I  certainly  must  have  seen  this 
hand  before: 

Mrs.   Mai.     Nay,  but  read  it,  Captain. 

Abs.  [Reads']  "  My  soul's  idol,  my  adored 
Lydia!" — Very  tender,  indeed! 

Mrs.  Mai.  Tender!  aye,  and  profane,  too, 
o'  my  conscience! 

Abs.  "  I  am  excessively  alarmed  at  the  in- 
telligence you  send  me,  the  more  so  as  my 
new  rival  " 

Mrs.    Mai.     That's   you,    sir. 

Abs.  "  has  universally  the  character  of  be- 
ing an  accomplished  gentleman,  and  a  man  of 
honor." Well,  that's  handsome  enough. 

Mrs.  Mai.  O,  the  fellow  had  some  design 
in  writing  so. 

Abs.  That  he  had,  I'll  answer  for  him, 
ma'am. 

Mrs.  Mai.  But  go  on,  sir — you'll  see  pres- 
ently. 

Abs.  "  As  for  the  old  weather-beaten  she- 
dragon  who  guards  you  " — Who  can  he  mean 
by  that? 

Mrs.  Mai.  Me!  Sir — me! — he  means  met 
There— what  do  you  think  now?— But  go  on 
a  little  further. 

Abs.  Impudent  scoundrel! — "  it  shall  go 
hard  but  I  will  elude  her  vigilance,  as  I  am 
told  that  the  same  ridiculous  vanity  which 
makes  her  dress  up  her  coarse  features,  and 
deck  her  dull  chat  with  hard  words  which  she 
don't  understand  " 

Mrs.  Mai.  There,  sir!  an  attack  upon  my 
language!  What  do  you  think  of  that?— an 
aspersion  upon  my  parts  of  speech!  Was 
ever  such  a  brute!  Sure  if  I  reprehend  any 
thing  in  this  world,  it  is  the  use  of  my 
oracular  tongue,  and  a  nice  derangement  of 
epitaphs ! 

Abs.  He  deserves  to  be  hanged  and  quar- 
tered! Let  me  see — "  same  ridiculous  van- 
ity "— 

Mrs.  Mai.  You  need  not  read  it  again, 
sir. 

Abs.  I  beg  pardon,  ma'am "  does  also 

lay  her  open  to  the  grossest  deceptions  from 
flattery  and  pretended  admiration " — an  im- 
pudent coxcomb ! "  so  that  I  have  a.  scheme 

to  see  you  shortly  with  the  old  harridan's 
consent,  and  even  to  make  her  a  go-between 
in  our  interviews." — Was  ever  such  as- 
surance ! 

Mrs.  Mai.  Did  you  ever  hear  any  thing 
like  it?— He'll  elude  my  vigilance,  will  he? 


378 


THE  RIVALS 


ACT  III,  Sc.  III. 


—Yes,  yes!  ha!  ha!  He's  very  likely  to 
enter  these  doors! — We'll  try  who  can  plot 
best! 

Abs.     Ha!  ha!  ha!    A  conceited  puppy,  ha! 

ha!   ha! Well,    but   Mrs.    Malaprop,   as   the 

girl  seems  so  infatuated  by  this  fellow, 
suppose  you  were  to  wink  at  her  corre- 
sponding with  him  for  a  little  time — let  her 
even  plot  an  elopement  with  him — then  do 
you  connive  at  her  escape — while  / .  just  in 
the  nick,  will  have  the  fellow  laid  by  the 
heels,  and  fairly  contrive  to  carry  her  off 
in  his  stead. 

Mrs.  Mai.  I  am  delighted  with  the 
scheme;  never  was  any  thing  better  per- 
petrated ! 

Abs.  But,  pray,  could  not  I  see  the  lady 
for  a  few  minutes  now? — I  should  like  to  try 
her  temper  a  little. 

Mrs.  Mai.  Why,  I  don't  know— I  doubt 
she  is  not  prepared  for  a  first  visit  of  this 
kind. — There  is  a  decorum  in  these  matters. 

Abs.  O  Lord!  she  won't  mind  me — only 
tell  her  Beverley 

Mrs.    Mai.     Sir! 

Abs.     [Aside]  Gently,  good  tongue. 

Mrs.  Mai.     What  did  you  say  of  Beverley? 

Abs.  O,  I  was  going  to  propose  that  you 
should  tell  her,  by  way  of  jest,  that  it  was 
Beverley  who  was  below — she'd  come  down 
fast  enough  then — ha!  ha!  ha! 

Mrs.  Mai.  'Twould  be  a  trick  she  well 
deserves. — Besides,  you  know  the  fellow 
tells  her  he'll  get  my  consent  to  see  her — 
ha!  ha! — Let  him  if  he  can,  I  say  again.— 
Lydia,  come  down  here!  [Calling]— He'll 
make  me  a  go-between  in  their  interviews! — • 
ha!  ha!  ha! — Come  down,  I  say,  Lydia!— 
I  don't  wonder  at  your  laughing,  ha!  ha! 
ha! — his  impudence  is  truly  ridiculous. 

Abs.  'Tis  very  ridiculous,  upon  my  soul, 
ma'am,  ha!  ha!  ha! 

Mrs.  Mai.  The  little  hussy  won't  hear.— 
Well,  I'll  go  and  tell  her  at  once  who  it  is.— 
She  shall  know  that  Capt.  Absolute  is  come 
to  wait  on  her.— And  I'll  make  her  behave 
as  becomes  a  young  woman. 

Abs.     As   you   please,    ma'am. 

Mrs.  Mai.  For  the  present,  Captain,  your 
servant.— Ah!  you've  not  done  laughing  yet, 
I  See— elude  my  vigilance! — yes,  yes,  ha! 
ha!  ha!  lExit. 

Abs.  Ha!  ha!  ha!  one  would  think  now 
I  might  throw  off  all  disguise  at  once,  and 
seize  my  prize  with  security— but  such  is 
Lydia's  caprice  that  to  undeceive  were  prob- 
ably to  lose  her.— I'll  see  whether  she  knows 
me. 

[Walks  aside,   and   seems  engaged   in  look- 
ing at  the  pictures. 

Enter  LYDIA. 

Lyd.  What  a  scene  am  I  now  to  go  thro'! 
Surely  nothing  can  be  more  dreadful  than 


to  be  obliged  to  listen  to  the  loathsome  ad- 
dresses of  a  stranger  to  one's  heart. — I  have 
heard  of  girls  persecuted  as  I  am,  who  have 
appealed  in  behalf  of  their  favored  lover  to 
the  generosity  of  his  rival:  suppose  I  were 
to  try  it— there  stands  the  hated  rival— an 
officer  too! — but  O,  how  unlike  my  Beverley! 
— I  wonder  he  don't  begin — Truly  he  seems  a 
very  negligent  wooer!— Quite  at  his  ease, 
upon  my  word! — I'll  speak  first  [Aloud} — 
Mr.  Absolute. 

Abs.     Madam.  [Turns    round. 

Lyd.     O  Heavens!   Beverley! 

Abs.  Hush!— hush,  my  lif e !— Softly !  Be 
not  surprised. 

Lyd.  I  am  so  astonished!  and  so  terrified! 
and  so  overjoyed! — For  Heaven's  sake!  how 
came  you  here? 

Abs.  Briefly — I  have  deceived  your  aunt. 
— I  was  informed  that  my  new  rival  was  to 
visit  here  this  evening,  and  contriving  to 
have  him  kept  away,  have  passed  myself  on 
her  for  Capt.  Absolute. 

/-.',•:'.  O,  charming! — And  she  really  takes 
you  for  young  Absolute? 

Abs.     O,  she's  convinced  of  it. 

Lyd.  Ha!  ha!  ha!  I  can't  forbear  laugh- 
ing to  think  how  her  sagacity  is  over- 
reached ! 

./'•.•.-.  But  we  trifle  with  our  precious  mo- 
ments— such  another  opportunity  may  not 
occur — then  let  me  now  conjure  my  kind, 
my  condescending  angel,  to  fix  the  time 
when  I  may  rescue  her  from  undeserved 
persecution,  and  with  a  licensed  warmth 
plead  for  my  reward. 

Lyd.  Will  you  then,  Beverley,  consent  to 
forfeit  that  portion  of  my  paltry  wealth? — 
that  burthen  on  the  wings  of  love? 

Abs.  O,  come  to  me— rich  only  thus— in 
loveliness. — Bring  no  portion  to  me  but  thy 
love — 'twill  be  generous  in  you,  Lydia— for 
well  you  know,  it  is  the  only  dower  your 
poor  Beverley  can  repay. 

Lyd.  How  persuasive  are  his  words!— 
how  charming  will  poverty  be  with  him! 

Abs.  Ah !  my  soul,  what  a  life  will  we 
then  live!  Love  shall  be  our  idol  and  sup- 
port! We  will  worship  him  with  a  monastic 
strictness;  abjuring  all  worldly  toys,  to  cen- 
tre every  thought  and  action  there.— Proud 
of  calamity,  we  will  enjoy  the  wreck  of 
wealth;  while  the  surrounding  gloom  of 
adversity  shall  make  the  flame  of  our  pure 
love  show  doubly  bright.— By  Heavens!  I 
would  fling  all  goods  of  fortune  from  me 
with  a  prodigal  hand  to  enjoy  the  scene 
where  I  might  clasp  my  Lydia  to  my  bosom, 
and  say,  the  world  affords  no  smile  to  me — 

but     here.     [Embracing     her] If     she     holds 

out   now    the   devil   is    in   it!  [Aside. 

Lyd.  Now  could  I  fly  with  him  to  the 
Antipodes!  but  my  persecution  is  not  yet 
come  to  a  crisis. 


379 


ACT  III,  Sc.  IV. 


THE  RIVALS 


Enter  MRS.    MALAPROP,   listening. 

Mrs.  Mai.  I'm  impatient  to  know  how 
the  little  hussy  deports  herself.  [Aside. 

Abs.  So  pensive,  Ly  dial— is  then  your 
warmth  abated? 

Mrs.  Mai.  Warmth  abated! — So! — she  has 
been  in  a  passion,  I  suppose.  [Aside. 

Lyd.  No — nor  never  can  while  I  have 
life. 

Mrs.  Mai.  An  ill-tempered  little  devil!— 
She'll  be  in  a  passion  all  her  life — will  she? 

[Aside. 

Lyd.  Think  not  the  idle  threats  of  my 
ridiculous  aunt  can  ever  have  any  weight 
with  me. 

Mrs.  Mai.  Very  dutiful,  upon  my  word! 

[Aside. 

Lyd.  Let  her  choice  be  Capt.  Absolute, 
but  Beverley  is  mine. 

Mrs.  Mai.  I  am  astonished  at  her  assur- 
ance!— to  his  face — this  to  his  face!  [Aside. 

Abs.  Thus  then  let  me  enforce  my  suit. 

[Kneeling. 

Mrs.  Mai.  [Aside]  Aye — poor  young  man! 
— down  on  his  knees  entreating  for  pity!— I 
can  contain  no  longer. — [Aloud]  Why,  hussy! 
hussy! — I  have  overheard  you. 

Abs.     O,    confound    her   vigilance!     [Aside. 

Mrs.  Mai.  Capt.  Absolute— I  know  not 
how  to  apologize  for  her  shocking  rude- 
ness. 

Abs.  So— all's  safe,  I  find.  [Aside. 

I  have  hopes,  madam,  that  time  will  bring 
the  young  lady 

Mrs.  Mai.  O  there's  nothing  to  be  hoped 
for  from  her!  She's  as  headstrong  as  an 
allegory  on  the  banks  of  Nile. 

Lyd.  Nay,  madam,  what  do  you  charge 
me  with  now  ? 

Mrs.  Mai.  Why,  thou  unblushing  rebel— 
didn't  you  tell  this  gentleman  to  his  face 
.that  you  loved  another  better? — didn't  you 
say  you  never  would  be  his? 

Lyd.     No,  madam — I   did  not. 

Mrs.  Mai.  Good  Heavens !  what  assur- 
ance ! — Lydia,  Lydia,  you  ought  to  know 
that  lying  don't  become  a  young  woman! — 
Didn't  you  boast  that  Beverley — that  strol- 
ler Beverley,  possessed  your  heart? — Tell 
me  that,  I  say. 

Lyd.  Tis  true,  ma'am,  and  none  but  Bev- 
erley  

Mrs.  Mai.  Hold  —  hold,  Assurance !  —  you 
shall  not  be  so  rude. 

Abs.  Nay,  pray  Mrs.  Malaprop,  don't 
stop  the  young  lady's  speech: — she's  very 
welcome  to  talk  thus— it  does  not  hurt  me 
in  the  least,  I  assure  you. 

Mrs.  Mai.  You  are  too  good,  Captain- 
too  amiably  patient — but  come  with  me, 
miss. — Let  us  see  you  again  soon,  Captain. — 
Remember  what  we  have  fixed. 

Abs.     I   shall,    ma'am. 


Mrs.    Mai.     Come,    take    a    graceful    leave 
of    the    gentleman. 

Lyd.     May     every     blessing     wait     on     my 

Beverley,  my  loved  Bev 

Mrs.    Mai.     Hussy!      I'll    choke    the    word 
in  your  throat! — come  along — come  along. 
[Exeunt    severally,    ABSOLUTE    kissing    his 
hand    to    LYDIA — MRS.    MALAPROP    stop- 
ping  her   from  speaking. 


SCENE  IV 

ACRES'S  Lodgings. 

ACRES  and  DAVID. 

ACRES  as   just   dressed. 

Acres.  Indeed,  David— do  you  think  I  be- 
come it  so? 

Dav.  You  are  quite  another  creature,  be- 
lieve me,  master,  by  the  Mass!  an'  we've 
any  luck  we  shall  see  the  Devon  monkey- 
rony  in  all  the  print-shops  in  Bath ! 

Acres.  Dress  does  make  a  difference, 
David. 

Dav.  Tis  all  in  all,  I  think.— Difference ! 
why,  an'  you  were  to  go  now  to  Clod-Hall, 
I  am  certain  the  old  lady  wouldn't  know 
you,  Master  Butler  wouldn't  believe  his  own 
eyes,  and  Mrs.  Pickle  would  cry,  "  Lard 
presarve  me ! "  our  dairy-maid  would  come 
giggling  to  the  door,  and  I  warrant  Dolly 
Tester,  your  Honor's  favorite,  would  blush 
like  my  waistcoat. — Oons!  I'll  hold  a  gallon, 
there  a'n't  a  dog  in  the  house  but  would 
bark,  and  I  question  whether  Phillis  would 
wag  a  hair  of  her  tail! 

Acres.  Aye,  David,  there's  nothing  like 
polishing. 

Dav.  So  I  says  of  your  Honor's  boots; 
but  the  boy  never  heeds  me! 

Acres.  But,  David,  has  Mr.  De-la-Grace 
been  here?  I  must  rub  up  my  balancing, 
and  chasing,  and  boring. 

/'•;:.     I'll   call   again,    sir. 

Acres.  Do — and  see  if  there  are  any  let- 
ters for  me  at  the  post-office. 

Dav.  I  will. — By  the  Mass,  I  can't  help 
looking  at  your  head!— If  I  hadn't  been  by 
at  the  cooking,  I  wish  I  may  die  if  I  should 
have  known  the  dish  again  myself!  [Exit. 

ACRES    comes    forward    practising    a     dancing 
step. 

Acres.  Sink,  slide — coupee! — Confound  the 
first  inventors  of  cotillons!  say  I— they  are 
as  bad  as  algebra  to  us  country  gentlemen. 
—I  can  walk  a  minuet  easy  enough  when 
I'm  forced! — and  I  have  been  accounted  a 
good  stick  in  a  country-dance. — Odds  jigs 
and  tabors! — I  never  valued  your  cross- 
over two  couple — figure  in — right  and  left— 


380 


THE  RIVALS 


ACT  III,  Sc.  IV. 


and  I'd  foot  it  with  e'er  a  captain  in  the 
county !  —  But  these  outlandish  heathen 
Allemandes  and  Cotillons  are  quite  beyond 
me!— I  shall  never  prosper  at  'em,  that's 
sure. — Mine  are  true-born  English  legs — 
they  don't  understand  their  curst  French 
lingo! — their  pas  this,  and  pas  that,  and  pas 
t'other! — D — n  me!  my  feet  don't  like  to  be 
called  paws!  No,  'tis  certain  I  have  most 
an tigallican  toes ! 

Enter  SERVANT. 

Serv.     Here    is    Sir    Lucius    OTrigger    tb 
wait    on    you,    sir, 
Acres.     Show  him  in. 

Enter  SIR  Lucius. 

Sir  Luc.  Mr.  Acres,  I  am  delighted  to 
embrace  you. 

Acres.  My  dear  Sir  Lucius,  I  kiss  your 
hands. 

Sir  Luc.  Pray,  my  friend,  what  has 
brought  you  so  suddenly  to  Bath? 

Acres.  Faith!  I  have  followed  Cupid's 
Jack-a-Lantern,  and  find  myself  in  a  quag- 
mire at  last. — In  short,  I  have  been  very 
ill-used,  Sir  Lucius. — I  don't  choose  to  men- 
tion names,  but  look  on  me  as  on  a  very 
ill-used  gentleman. 

Sir  Luc.  Pray,  what  is  the  case? — I  ask 
no  names. 

Acres.  Mark  me,  Sir  Lucius,  I  fall  as 
deep  as  need  be  in  love  with  a  young  lady 
—her  friends  take  my  part — I  follow  her  to 
Bath — send  word  of  my  arrival,  and  receive 
answer  that  the  lady  is  to  be  otherwise  dis- 
posed of. — This,  Sir  Lucius,  I  call  being  ill- 
used. 

Sir  Luc.  Very  ill,  upon  my  conscience. — 
Pray,  can  you  divine  the  cause  of  it? 

Acres.  Why,  there's  the  matter:  she  has 
another  lover,  one  Beverley,  who,  I  am  told, 
is  now  in  Bath. — Odds  slanders  and  lies!  he 
must  be  at  the  bottom  of  it. 

Sir  Luc.  A  rival  in  the  case,  is  there?— 
And  you  think  he  has  supplanted  you  un- 
fairly? 

Acres.  Unfairly! — to  be  sure  he  has. — He 
never  could  have  done  it  fairly. 

Sir  Luc.  Then  sure  you  know  what  is  to 
be  done! 

Acres.     Not   I,   upon   my   soul! 

Sir  Luc.  We  wear  no  swords  here,  but 
you  understand  me. 

Acres.     What!  fight   him? 

Sir  Luc.  Aye,  to  be  sure:  what  can  I 
mean  else  ? 

Acres.  But  he  has  given  me  no  provoca- 
tion. 

Sir  Luc.  Now,  I  think  he  has  given  you 
the  greatest  provocation  in  the  world. — Can 
a  man  commit  a  more  heinous  offence 
against  another  than  to  fall  in  love  with 


the  same  woman?  O,  by  my  soul,  it  is 
the  most  unpardonable  breach  of  friend- 
ship! 

Acres.  Breach  of  friendship!  Aye,  aye; 
but  I  have  no  acquaintance  with  this  man. 
I  never  saw  him  in  my  life. 

Sir  Luc.  That's  no  argument  at  all. — 
He  has  the  less  right  then  to  take  such  a 
liberty. 

Acres.  'Gad,  that's  true. — I  grow  full  of 
anger,  Sir  Lucius!— I  fire  apace!  Odds  hilts 
and  blades!  I  find  a  man  may  have  a  deal 
of  valor  in  him  and  not  know  it!  But 
couldn't  I  contrive  to  have  a  little  right  of 
my  side? 

Sir  Luc.  What  the  d— 1  signifies  right 
when  your  honor  is  concerned?  Do  you 
think  Achilles,  or  my  little  Alexander  the 
Great  ever  inquired  where  the  right  lay? 
No,  by  my  soul,  they  drew  their  broad- 
swords, and  left  the  lazy  sons  of  peace  to 
settle  the  justice  of  it. 

Acres.  Your  words  are  a  grenadier's 
march  to  my  heart!  I  believe  courage  must 
be  catching! — I  certainly  do  feel  a  kind  of 
valor  rising,  as  it  were — a  kind  of  courage, 
as  I  may  say. Odds  flints,  pans,  and  trig- 
gers !  I'll  challenge  him  directly. 

Sir  Luc.  Ah,  my  little  friend!  if  we  had 
Blunderbuss-Hall  here — I  could  show  you  a 
range  of  ancestry  in  the  O'Trigger  line  that 
would  furnish  the  new  room,  every  one  of 
whom  had  killed  his  man! — For  though  the 
mansion-house  and  dirty  acres  have  slipt 
through  my  fingers,  I  thank  God  our  honor, 
and  the  family -pictures,  are  as  fresh  as 
ever. 

Acres.  O  Sir  Lucius!  I  have  had  ances- 
tors too!  every  man  of  'em  colonel  or  cap- 
tain in  the  militia !— Odds  balls  and  bar- 
rels! say  no  more — I'm  braced  for  it— my 
nerves  are  become  catgut!  my  sinews  wire! 
and  my  heart  pinchbeck!  The  thunder  of 
your  words  has  soured  the  milk  of  human 

kindness  in  my  breast! Z — ds!  as  the  man 

in  the  play  says,  "  I  could  do  such   deeds !  " 

Sir  Luc.  Come,  come,  there  must  be  no 
passion  at  all  in  the  case.— These  things 
should  always  be  done  civilly. 

Acres.  I  must  be  in  a  passion,  Sir  Lucius. 
—I  must  be  in  a  rage.— Dear  Sir  Lucius,  let 
me  be  in  a  rage,  if  you  love  me. — Come, 
here's  pen  and  paper.  ISits  down  to  write. 
I  would  the  ink  were  red!— Indite,  I  say, 
indite!— How  shall  I  begin?  Odds  bullets 
and  blades!  I'll  write  a  good  bold  hand, 
however. 

Sir  Luc.     Pray  compose  yourself. 

Acres.  Come — now,  shall  I  begin  with  an 
oath?  Do,  Sir  Lucius,  let  me  begin  with  a 
damme. 

Sir  Luc.  Pho!  pho!  do  the  thing  decently 
and  like  a  Christian.  Begin  now,—"  Sir  "- 

Acres.     That's    too    civil    by    half. 


381 


ACT  IV,  Sc.  I. 


THE  RIVALS 


Sir  Luc.  "  To  prevent  the  confusion  that 
might  arise  " — 

Acres.      [Writing]      Well 

Sir  Luc.  "  From  our  both  addressing  the 
.same  lady  " 

Acres.  Aye —  there's  the  reason — [Writ- 
ing] "  same  lady  " — Well 

Sir  Luc.  "  I  shall  expect  the  honor  of 
your  company  " 

Acres.  Z ds!  I'm  not  asking  him  to 

dinner. 

Sir  Luc.     Pray  be  easy. 

Acres.  Well  then  [Writing]—"  honor  of 
your  company  " 

Sir  Luc.     "  To  settle   our  pretensions  " — 

Acres.  [Writing]  Well- 
Sir  Luc.  Let  me  see — aye,  King's  Mead- 
fields  will  do — "  In  King's  Mead-fields." 

Acres.  So  that's  done.— Well,  I'll  fold  it 
up  presently;  my  own  crest — a  hand  and 
dagger  shall  be  the  seal. 

S«r  Luc.  You  see  now,  this  little  explana- 
tion will  put  a  stop  at  once  to  all  confusion 
or  misunderstanding  that  might  arise  be- 
tween you. 

Acres.  Aye,  we  fight  to  prevent  any 
misunderstanding. 

Sir  Luc.  Now,  I'll  leave  you  to  fix  your 
own  time. — Take  my  advice,  and  you'll  de- 
cide it  this  evening  if  you  can;  then  let 
the  worst  come  of  it,  'twill  be  off  your  mind 
to-morrow. 

Acres.     Very   true. 

Sir  Luc.  So  I  shall  see  nothing  more  of 
you,  unless  it  be  by  letter,  till  the  evening. 
— I  would  do  myself  the  honor  to  carry 
your  message;  but,  to  tell  you  a  secret,  I 
believe  I  shall  have  just  such  another  affair 
on  my  own  hands.  There  is  a  gay  captain 
here,  who  put  a  jest  on  me  lately  at  the 
expense  of  my  country,  and  I  only  want  to 
fall  in  with  the  gentleman  to  call  him  out. 

Acres.  By  my  valor,  I  shall  like  to  see 
you  fight  first!  Odds  life!  I  should  like 
to  see  you  kill  him,  if  it  was  only  to  get  a 
little  lesson. 

Sir  Luc.  I  shall  be  very  proud  of  in- 
structing you. — Well  for  the  present — but 
remember  now,  when  you  meet  your  an- 
tagonist, do  every  thing  in  a  mild  and 
agreeable  manner. — Let  your  courage  be  as 
keen,  but  at  the  same  time  as  polished,  as 
your  sword.  [Exeunt  severally. 

ACT    IV 

SCENE  I 

ACRES'S  Lodgings. 
ACRES  and  DAVID. 

David.  Then,  by  the  Mass,  sir!  I  would 
do  no  such  thing — ne'er  a  Sir  Lucius  O'Trig- 


ger  in  the  kingdom  should  make  me  fight, 
when  I  wa'n't  so  minded.  Oons!  what  will 
the  old  lady  say  when  she  hears  o't! 

Acres.  Ah!  David,  if  you  had  heard  Sir 
Lucius! — Odds  sparks  and  flames!  he  would 
have  roused  your  valor. 

David.  Not  he,  indeed.  I  hates  such 
bloodthirsty  cormorants.  Look'ee,  master, 
if  you'd  wanted  a  bout  at  boxing,  quarter- 
staff,  or  short-staff,  I  should  never  be 
the  man  to  bid  you  cry  off:  but  for  your 
curst  sharps  and  snaps,  I  never  knew  any 
good  come  of  'em. 

Acres.  But  my  honor,  David,  my  honor! 
I  must  be  very  careful  of  my  honor. 

David.  Aye,  by  the  Mass!  and  I  would 
be  very  careful  of  it;  and  I  think  in  return 
my  honor  couldn't  do  less  than  to  be  very 
careful  of  me. 

Acres.  Odds  blades!  David,  no  gentle- 
man will  ever  risk  the  loss  of  his  honor! 

David.  I  say  then,  it  would  be  but  civil 
in  honor  never  to  risk  the  loss  of  the 
gentleman. — Look'ee,  master,  this  honor 
seems  to  me  to  be  a  marvellous  false  friend; 
aye,  truly,  a  very  courtier-like  servant. — 
Put  the  case,  I  was  a  gentleman  (which, 
thank  God,  no  one  can  say  of  me);  well— my 
honor  makes  me  quarrel  with  another 
gentleman  of  my  acquaintance. — So — we 
fight.  (Pleasant  enough  that).  Boh!— I 
kill  him — (the  more's  my  luck).  Now,  pray 
who  gets  the  profit  of  it? — Why,  my  honor. 
—But  put  the  case  that  he  kills  me!— by  the 
Mass!  I  go  to  the  worms,  and  my  honor 
whips  over  to  my  enemy! 

Acres.  No,  David— in  that  case!— Odds 
crowns  and  laurels!  your  honor  follows  you 
to  the  grave. 

David.  Now,  that's  just  the  place  where 
I  could  make  a  shift  to  do  without  it. 

Acres.  2. ds,  David,  you're  a  coward! 

— It  doesn't  become  my  valor  to  listen  to 
you. — What,  shall  I  disgrace  my  ancestors? 
—Think  of  that,  David— think  what  it  would 
be  to  disgrace  my  ancestors! 

David.  Under  favor,  the  surest  way  of 
not  disgracing  them  is  to  keep  as  long  as 
you  can  out  of  their  company.  Look'ee  now, 
master,  to  go  to  them  in  such  haste — with 
an  ounce  of  lead  in  your  brains — I  should 
think  might  as  well  be  let  alone.  Our  an- 
cestors are  very  good  kind  of  folks;  but 
they  are  the  last  people  I  should  choose  to 
have  a  visiting  acquaintance  with. 

Acres.  But  David,  now,  you  don't  think 
there  is  such  very,  very,  very  great  danger, 
hey?— Odds  life!  people  often  fight  without 
any  mischief  done ! 

David.  By  the  Mass,  I  think  'tis  ten  to 
one  against  you! — Oons!  here  to  meet  some 
lion-headed  fellow,  I  warrant,  with  his 
d— ned  double-barrelled  swords,  and  cut- 
and- thrust  pistols!  Lord  bless  us!  it  makes 


382 


THE  RIVALS 


ACT  IV,  Sc.  II. 


me  tremble  to  think  o't. — Those  be  such 
desperate  bloody-minded  weapons!  Well,  I 
never  could  abide  'em! — from  a  child  I  never 
could  fancy  'em!— I  suppose  there  a'n't  so 
merciless  a  beast  in  the  world  as  your 
loaded  pistol! 

Acres.  Z — ds!  I  won't  be  afraid! — Odds 
fire  and  fury!  you  shan't  make  me  afraid! — 
Here  is  the  challenge,  and  I  have  sent  for 
my  dear  friend  Jack  Absolute  to  carry  it 
for  me. 

David.  Aye,  i'  the  name  of  mischief,  let 
him  be  the  messenger. — For  my  part,  I 
wouldn't  lend  a  hand  to  it  for  the  best  horse 
in  your  stable.  By  the  Mass!  it  don't  look 
like  another  letter!  It  is,  as  I  may  say, 
a  designing  and  malicious-looking  letter! — 
and  I  warrant  smells  of  gunpowder,  like  a 
soldier's  pouch! — Oons!  I  wouldn't  swear  it 
mayn't  go  off! 

Acres.  Out,  you  poltroon! — You  ha'n't  the 
valor  of  a  grasshopper. 

David.  Well,  I  say  no  more.— Twill  be 
sad  news,  to  be  sure,  at  Clod-Hall! — but  I 
ha'  done. — How  Phillis  will  howl  when  she 
hears  of  it!— Aye,  poor  bitch,  she  little 
thinks  what  shooting  her  master's  going 
after!— And  I  warrant  old  Crop,  who  has 
carried  your  honor,  field  and  road,  these 
ten  years,  will  curse  the  hour  he  was  born. 

[Whimpering. 

Acres.  It  won't  do,  David— I  am  deter- 
mined to  fight— so  get  along,  you  coward, 
while  I'm  in  the  mind. 

Enter  SERVANT. 

Serv.     Captain  Absolute,   sir. 

Acres.     O!  show  him  up.         [Exit  SERVANT. 

David.  Well,  Heaven  send  we  be  all  alive 
this  time  to-morrow. 

Acres.  What's  that!— Don't  provoke  me, 
David ! 

David.     Good    bye,    Master.      [Whimpering. 

Acres.  Get  along,  you  cowardly,  das- 
tardly, croaking  raven.  [Exit  DAVID. 

Enter  ABSOLUTE. 

Abs.     What's    the    matter,    Bob? 

Acres.  A  vile,  sheep-hearted  blockhead!— 
If  I  hadn't  the  valor  of  St.  George  and  the 
dragon  to  boot 

Abs.  But  what  did  you  want  with  me, 
Bob? 

A  cres.     O !— There 

[Gives    him    the    challenge. 

Abs.  "  To  Ensign  Beverley."  So— what's 
going  on  now?  [Aside}—  Well,  what's  this? 

Acres.     A  challenge! 

Abs.  Indeed!— Why,  you  won't  fight  him, 
will  you,  Bob  ? 

Acres.  'Egad,  but  I  will,  Jack.— Sir  Lucius 
has  wrought  me  to  it.  He  has  left  me  full 
of  rage — and  I'll  fight  this  evening,  that  so 
much  good  passion  mayn't  be  wasted. 


Abs.     But   what   have    I    to   do   with    this? 

Acres.  Why,  as  I  think  you  know  some- 
thing of  this  fellow,  I  want  you  to  find 
him  out  for  me,  and  give  him  this  mortal 
defiance. 

Abs.  Well,  give  it  to  me,  and  trust  me 
he  gets  it. 

Acres.  Thank  you,  my  dear  friend,  my 
dear  Jack;  but  it  is  giving  you  a  great  deal 
of  trouble. 

Abs.  Not  in  the  least — I  beg  you  won't 
mention  it. — No  trouble  in  the  world,  I  as- 
sure you. 

Acres.  You  are  very  kind.— What  it  is 
to  have  a  friend! — You  couldn't  be  my 
second— could  you,  Jack  ? 

Abs.  Why  no,  Bob— not  in  this  affair— it 
would  not  be  quite  so  proper. 

Acres.  Well  then,  I  must  fix  on  my 
friend  Sir  Lucius.  I  shall  have  your  good 
wishes,  however,  Jack. 

Abs.  Whenever  he  meets  you,  believe 
me. 

Enter   SERVANT. 

Serv.  Sir  Anthony  Absolute  is  below,  in- 
quiring for  the  Captain. 

Abs.  I'll  come  instantly.— Well,  my  little 
hero,  success  attend  you.  [Going. 

Acres.  Stay  —  stay,  Jack.  —  If  Beverley 
should  ask  you  what  kind  of  a  man  your 
friend  Acres  is,  do  tell  him  I  am  a  devil  of 
a  fellow— will  you,  Jack? 

Abs.  To  be  sure  I  shall.— I'll  say  you 
are  a  determined  dog — hey,  Bob? 

Acres.  Aye,  do,  do — and  if  that  frightens 
him,  egad,  perhaps  he  mayn't  come.  So 
tell  him  I  generally  kill  a  man  a  week — 
will  you,  Jack? 

Abs.  I  will,  I  will;  I'll  say  you  are  called 
in  the  country  "Fighting  Bob!" 

Acres.  Right,  right— 'tis  all  to  prevent 
mischief;  for  I  don't  want  to  take  his  life 
if  I  clear  my  honor. 

Abs.     No! — that's    very    kind    of    you. 

Acres.  Why,  you  don't  wish  me  to  kill 
him— do  you,  Jack? 

Abs.  No,  upon  my  soul,  I  do  not. — But 
a  devil  of  a  fellow,  hey?  [Going. 

Acres.  True,  true.— But  stay — stay,  Jack 
— you  may  add  that  you  never  saw  me  in 
such  a  rage  before — a  most  devouring  rage! 

Abs.     I   will,   I   will. 

Acres.  Remember,  Jack — a  determined 
dog! 

Abs.     Aye,    aye,    "Fighting    Bob!" 

[Exeunt  severally. 

SCENE  II 

MRS.    MALAPROP'S  Lodgings. 
MRS.    MALAPROP   and   LYDIA. 

Mrs.  Mai.  Why,  thou  perverse  one!— tell 
me  what  you  can  object  to  him?— Isn't  he  a 


383 


ACT  IV,  Sc.  II. 


THE  RIVALS 


handsome  man? — tell  me  that. — A  genteel 
man  ?  a  pretty  figure  of  a  man  ? 

Lyd.  She  little  thinks  whom  she 
is  praising!  [Aside] — So  is  Beverley, 
ma'am. 

Mrs.  Mai.  No  caparisons,  miss,  if  you 
please! — Caparisons  don't  become  a  young 
woman. — No!  Captain  Absolute  is  indeed  a 
fine  gentleman! 

Lyd.  Aye,  the  Captain  Absolute  you  have 
seen.  [Aside. 

Mrs.  Mai.  Then  he's  so  well  bred;— so 
full  of  alacrity,  and  adulation !— and  has  so 
much  to  say  for  himself: — in  such  good  lan- 
guage, too! — His  physiognomy  so  grammat- 
ical!— Then  his  presence  is  so  noble! — I  pro- 
test, when  I  saw  him,  I  thought  of  what 
Hamlet  says  in  the  play: — "Hesperian  curls! 
— the  front  of  Job  himself! — An  eye,  like 
March,  to  threaten  at  command! — A  station, 
like  Harry  Mercury,  new — "  something  about 
kissing — on  a  hill — however,  the  similitude 
struck  me  directly. 

Lyd.  How  enraged  she'll  be  presently 
when  she  discovers  her  mistake!  [Aside. 

Enter  SERVANT. 

Serv.  Sir  Anthony  and  Captain  Absolute 
are  below,  ma'am. 

Mrs.   Mai.     Show   them  up  here. 

[Exit  SERVANT. 

Now,  Lydia,  I  insist  on  your  behaving  as 
becomes  a  young  woman. — Show  your  good 
breeding  at  least,  though  you  have  forgot 
your  duty. 

Lyd.  Madam,  I  have  told  you  my  resolu- 
tion;— I  shall  not  only  give  him  no  en- 
couragement, but  I  won't  even  speak  to, 
or  look  at  him. 

[Flings  herself  into  a  chair,  with  her  face 
from    the    door. 

Enter  SIR  ANTHONY  and  ABSOLUTE. 

Sir  Anth.  Here  we  are,  Mrs.  Malaprop, 
come  to  mitigate  the  frowns  of  unrelenting 
beauty— and  difficulty  enough  I  had  to  bring 
this  fellow.— I  don't  know  what's  the  matter; 
but  if  I  hadn't  held  him  by  force,  he'd  have 
given  me  the  slip. 

Mrs.  Mai.  You  have  infinite  trouble,  Sir 
Anthony,  in  the  affair.  I  am  ashamed  for 
the  cause! — Lydia,  Lydia,  rise,  I  beseech 
you! — pay  your  respects!  [Aside  to  her. 

Sir  Anth.  I  hope,  madam,  that  Miss  Lan- 
guish has  reflected  on  the  worth  of  this 
gentleman,  and  the  regard  due  to  her  aunt's 
choice,  and  my  alliance. — Now,  Jack,  speak 
to  her!  [Aside  to  him. 

Abs.  What  the  d— 1  shall  I  do!  [Aside]— 
You  see,  sir,  she  won't  even  look  at  me 
whilst  you  are  here. — I  knew  she  wouldn't! 


— I    told    you    so. — Let    me    entreat    you,    sir, 
to  leave  us  together! 

[ABSOLUTE    seems    to    expostulate    with    his 
Father. 

Lyd.  [Aside]  I  wonder  I  ha'n't  heard  my 
aunt  exclaim  yet!  Sure  she  can't  have 
looked  at  him!— Perhaps  their  regimentals 
are  alike,  and  she  is  something  blind. 

Sir  Anth.  I  say,  sir,  I  won't  stir  a  foot 
yet! 

Mrs.  Mai.  I  am  sorry  to  say,  Sir  Anthony, 
that  my  affluence  over  my  niece  is  very 
small. — Turn  round,  Lydia,  I  blush  for 
you!  [Aside  to  her. 

Sir  Anth.     May    I   not   flatter   myself   that 

Miss    Languish    will    assign    what    cause    of 

dislike  she  can  have  to  my  son ! — Why  don't 

you  begin,  Jack? — Speak,  you   puppy— speak! 

[Aside   to   him. 

Mrs.    Mai.     It   is    impossible,   Sir    Anthony, 
she  can  have  any. — She  will  not  say  she  has. 
— Answer,    hussy!  why   don't   you   answer? 
[Aside    to    her. 

Sir  Anth.  Then,  madam,  I  trust  that  a 
childish  and  hasty  predilection  will  be  no 
bar  to  Jack's  happiness. — Z — ds !  sirrah !  why 
don't  you  speak  ?  [Aside  to  him. 

Lyd.  [Aside]  I  think  my  lover  seems  as 
little  inclined  to  conversation  as  myself.— 
How  strangely  blind  my  Aunt  is! 

Abs.  Hem!  hem! — madam — hem! — [ABSO- 
LUTE attempts  to  speak,  then  returns  to  SIR 
ANTHONY] — Faith!  sir,  I  am  so  confounded! 
— and  so — so — confused! — I  told  you  I  should 
be  so,  sir, — I  knew  it. — The — the — tremor  of 
my  passion  entirely  takes  away  my  pres- 
ence of  mind. 

Si i'  Anth.  But  it  don't  take  away  your 
voice,  fool,  does  it? — Go  up,  and  speak  to 
her  directly ! 

[Ass.    makes  signs   to   MRS.   MAL.    to   leave 
them   together. 

Mrs.  Mai.  Sir  Anthony,  shall  we  leave 
them  together? — Ah!  you  stubborn  little 
vixen !  [Aside  to  her. 

Sir  Anth.  Not  yet,  ma'am,  not  yet! 
What  the  d — 1  are  you  at?  Unlock  your 
jaws,  sirrah,  or [Aside  to  him. 

ABSOLUTE  draws  near  LYDIA. 

Abs.  [Aside]  Now  Heaven  send  she  may 
be  too  sullen  to  look  round! — I  must  dis- 
guise my  voice. — 

[Speaks  in   a    low    hoarse    tone. 

Will    not   Miss    Languish   lend   an   ear    to 

the  mild  accents  of   true  love? — Will   not 

Sir  Anth.  What  the  d— 1  ails  the  fellow?— 
Why  don't  you  speak  out? — not  stand 
croaking  like  a  frog  in  a  quinsy! 

Abs.  The — the — excess  of  my  awe,  and 
my — my — my  modesty  quite  choke  me! 

Sir  Anth.  Ah!  your  modesty  again! — I'll 
tell  you  what,  Jack,  if  you  don't  speak  gut 


384 


THE  RIVALS 


ACT  IV,  Sc.  II. 


directly,  and  glibly,  too,  I  shall  be  in  such 
a  rage!— Mrs.  Malaprop,  I  wish  the  lady 
would  favor  us  with  something  more  than 
a  side-front ! 

[MRS.   MALAPROP  seems  to   chide   LYDIA. 

Abs.    [Aside}    So!— All   will   out   I  see! 

[Goes  up  to  LYDIA,  speaks  softly. 
Be  not  surprised,  my  Lydia;  suppress  all 
surprise  at  present. 

Lyd.  [Aside}  Heavens!  'tis  Beverley's 
voice! — Sure  he  can't  have  imposed  on  Sir 
Anthony,  too ! — 

[Looks  round  by  degrees,  then  starts  up. 
Is  this  possible ! — my  Beverley ! — how  can 
this  be?— my  Beverley? 

Abs.     Ah!    'tis    all    over.  [Aside. 

Sir  Anth.  Beverley !— the  devil !— Bever- 
ley ! — What  can  the  girl  mean  ? — This  is  my 
son,  Jack  Absolute ! 

Mrs.  Mai.  For  shame,  hussy!  for  shame! 
— your  head  runs  so  on  that  fellow  that  you 
have  him  always  in  your  eyes! — Beg  Captain 
Absolute's  pardon  directly. 

Lyd.  I  see  no  Captain  Absolute,  but  my 
loved  Beverley ! 

Sir  Anth.  Z— ds!  the  girl's  mad!— her 
brain's  turned  by  reading! 

Mrs.  Mai.  O'  my  conscience,  I  believe  so! 
—What  do  you  mean  by  Beverley,  hussy?— 
You  saw  Captain  Absolute  before  to- 
day; there  he  is — your  husband  that  shall 
be. 

Lyd.  With  all  my  soul,  ma'am.— When  I 
refuse  my  Beverley 

Sir  Anth.  O!  she's  as  mad  as  Bedlam!— 
Or  has  this  fellow  been  playing  us  a  rogue's 
trick!— Come  here,  sirrah!— who  the  d— 1  are 
you? 

Abs.  Faith,  sir,  I  am  not  quite  clear  my- 
self; but  I'll  endeavor  to  recollect. 

Sir  Anth.  Are  you  my  son,  or  not? — an- 
swer for  your  mother,  you  dog,  if  you  won't 
for  me. 

Mrs.  Mai.  Aye,  sir,  who  are  you?  O 
mercy!  I  begin  to  suspect! 

Abs.  Ye  Powers  of  Impudence  befriend 
me!  [Aside"]  Sir  Anthony,  most  assuredly 
I  am  your  wife's  son;  and  that  I  sincerely 
believe  myself  to  be  yours  also,  I  hope  my 
duty  has  always  shown.— Mrs.  Malaprop,  I 
am  your  most  respectful  admirer — and  shall 
be  proud  to  add  affectionate  nephew. — I  need 
not  tell  my  Lydia,  that  she  sees  her  faithful 
Beverley,  who,  knowing  the  singular  gen- 
erosity of  her  temper,  assumed  that  name, 
and  a  station  which  has  proved  a  test  of  the 
most  disinterested  love,  which  he  now  hopes 
to  enjoy  in  a  more  elevated  character. 

Lyd.  [Sullenly]  So!— there  will  be  no 
elopement  after  all ! 

Sir  Anth.  Upon  my  soul,  Jack,  thou  art 
a  very  impudent  fellow!  To  do  you  justice, 
I  think  I  never  saw  a  piece  of  more  con- 
summate assurance! 


Abs.  O  you  flatter  me,  sir — you  compli- 
ment— 'tis  my  modesty  you  know,  sir — my 
modesty  that  has  stood  in  my  way. 

-S'lV  Anth.  Well,  I  am  glad  you  are  not 
the  dull,  insensible  varlet  you  pretended 
to  be,  however! — I'm  glad  you  have  made  a 

fool    of    your    father,    you    dog— I    am. So 

this  was  your  penitence,  your  duty,  and 
obedience! — I  thought  it  was  d— ned  sudden! 
— You  never  heard  their  names  before,  not 
you! — What,  Languishes  of  Worcestershire, 
hey?— if  you  could  please  me  in  the  affair, 
'twas  all  you  desired! — Ah!  you  dissembling 
villain! — What! — [Pointing  to  LYDIA]  she 
squints,  don't  she? — a  little  red-haired  girl! — 
hey  ? — Why,  you  hypoc  'tical  young  rascal ! 
—I  wonder  you  a'n't  ashamed  to  hold  up 
your  head ! 

Abs.  'Tis  with  difficulty,  sir. — I  am  con- 
fused—very much  confused,  as  you  must 
perceive. 

Mrs.  Mai.  O  Lud!  Sir  Anthony!— a  new 
liffht  breaks  in  upon  me! — Hey!  how!  what! 
Captain,  did  you  write  the  letters  then? — 
What! — I  am  to  thank  you  for  the  elegant 
compilation  of  "  an  old  weather-beaten  she- 
dragon  " — hey? — O  mercy!  was  it  you  that 
reflected  on  my  parts  of  speech? 

Abs.  Dear  sir!  my  modesty  will  be  over- 
powered at  last,  if  you  don't  assist  me. — 
I  shall  certainly  not  be  able  to  stand  it! 

Sir  Anth.  Come,  come,  Mrs.  Malaprop, 
we  must  forget  and  forgive. — Odds  life! 
matters  have  taken  so  clever  a  turn  all  of  a 
sudden,  that  I  could  find  in  my  heart  to  be 
so  good-humored!  and  so  gallant !— hey !  Mrs. 
Malaprop ! 

Mrs.  Mai.  Well,  Sir  Anthony,  since  you 
desire  it,  we  will  not  anticipate  the  past; — 
so  mind,  young  people — our  retrospection 
will  now  be  all  to  the  future. 

Sir  Anth.  Come,  we  must  leave  them  to- 
gether; Mrs.  Malaprop,  they  long  to  fly  into 
each  other's  arms,  I  warrant !  [Aside"] — 
Jack — isn't  the  cheek  as  I  said,  hey?— and 
the  eye,  you  dog ! — and  the  lip — hey  ? — Come, 
Mrs.  Malaprop,  we'll  not  disturb  their  ten- 
derness— theirs  is  the  time  of  life  for  happi- 
ness!  "Youth's  the  season  made  for  joy" 

— [Sings']—  hey!— Odds     life!       I'm     in      such 
spirits',— I   don't   know   what   I    couldn't   do!— 
Permit    me,   ma'am — [GtTCs   his   hand    to    MRS. 
MAL.     Sings']   Tol-de-rol !— 'gad,   I   should   like 
a  little  fooling  myself— Tol-de-rol!  de-rol! 
[Exit     singing,     and     handing     MRS.     MAL. 
LYDIA  sits  sullenly  in   her  chair. 

Abs.  So  much  thought  bodes  me  no  good 
[Aside], — So  grave,  Lydia! 

Lyd.     Sir! 

Abs.  So!— egad!  I  thought  as  much!— 
That  d — ned  monosyllable  has  froze  me ! 
[Aside]—  What,  Lydia,  now  that  we  are  a» 
happy  in  our  friends'  consent,  as  in  our 
mutual  vows 


385 


ACT  IV,  Sc.  II. 


THE  RIVALS 


Lyd.     Friends'   consent,  indeed!     {Peevishly. 

Abs.  Come,  come,  we  must  lay  aside  some 
of  our  romance — a  little  wealth  and  comfort 
may  be  endured  after  all.  And  for  your 
fortune,  the  lawyers  shall  make  such  settle- 
ments as 

Lyd.     Lawyers! — I    hate   lawyers! 

Abs.  Nay  then,  we  will  not  wait  for  their 
lingering  forms,  but  instantly  procure  the 
licence,  and 

Lyd.     The  licence! — I  hate  licence! 

Abs.  Oh  my  love!  be  not  so  unkind!— 
Thus  let  me  intreat [Kneeling. 

Lyd.  Pshaw! — what  signifies  kneeling 
when  you  know  I  11111x1  have  you? 

Abs.  [Rising']  Nay,  madam,  there  shall  be 
no  constraint  upon  your  inclinations,  I 
promise  you.— If  I  have  lost  your  heart, — 
I  resign  the  rest. — 'Gad,  I  must  try  what  a 
little  spirit  will  do.  [Aside. 

Lyd.  [Rising]  Then,  sir,  let  me  tell  you, 
the  interest  you  had  there  was  acquired  by 
a  mean,  unmanly  imposition,  and  deserves 
the  punishment  of  fraud. — What,  you  have 
been  treating  me  like  a  child! — humoring 
my  romance !  and  laughing,  I  suppose,  at 
your  success ! 

Abs.  You  wrong  me,  Lydia,  you  wrong 
me. — Only  hear 

Lyd.  So,  while  7  fondly  imagined  we  were 
deceiving  my  relations,  and  flattered  my- 
self that  I  should  outwit  and  incense  them 
all — behold !  my  hopes  are  to  be  crushed  at 
once,  by  my  aunt's  consent  and  approbation! 
— and  /  am  myself  the  only  dupe  at  last! 
[Walking  about  in  heat. 

Abs.     Nay,  but   hear   me 

Lyd.  No,  sir,  you  could  not  think  that 
such  paltry  artifices  could  please  me,  when 
the  mask  was  thrown  off! — But  I  suppose 
since  your  tricks  have  made  you  secure  of 
my  fortune,  you  are  little  solicitous  about 
my  affections. — But  here,  sir,  here  is  the 
picture — Beverley's  picture!  [Taking  a  min- 
iature from  her  bosom]  which  I  have  worn, 
night  and  day,  in  spite  of  threats  and  en- 
treaties !— There,  sir  [Flings  it  to  him] — and 
be  assured  I  throw  the  original  from  my 
heart  as  easily! 

Abs.  Nay,  nay,  ma'am,  we  will  not  differ 
as  to  that. — Here  [Taking  out  a  picture],  here 
is  Miss  Lydia  Languish. — What  a  difference! 
— Aye,  there  is  the  heavenly  assenting  smile 
that  first  gave  soul  and  spirit  to  my  hopes! 
— those  are  the  lips  which  sealed  a  vow,  as 
yet  scarce  dry  in  Cupid's  calendar !— and 
there,  the  half  resentful  blush  that  would 
have  checked  the  ardor  of  my  thanks. — 
Well,  all  that's  past!— all  over  indeed!— 
There,  madam — in  beauty,  that  copy  is  not 
equal  to  you,  but  in  my  mind  its  merit 
over  the  original,  in  being  still  the  same,  is 
such — that — I  cannot  find  in  my  heart  to 
part  with  it.  [Puts  it  up  again. 


Lyd.  [Softening]  'Tis  your  own  doing, 
sir.— I— I— I  suppose  you  are  perfectly  sat- 
isfied. 

Abs.  O,  most  certainly. — Sure  now  this 
is  much  better  than  being  in  love! — ha!  ha! 
ha! — There's  some  spirit  in  this! — What 
signifies  breaking  some  scores  of  solemn 
promises,  half  an  hundred  vows,  under  one's 
hand,  with  the  marks  of  a  dozen  or  two 
angels  to  witness!— all  that's  of  no  con- 
sequence, you  know. — To  be  sure  people  will 
say,  that  miss  didn't  know  her  own  mind- 
but  never  mind  that: — or  perhaps  they  may 
be  ill-natured  enough  to  hint  that  the  gen- 
tleman grew  tired  of  the  lady  and  forsook 
her— but  don't  let  that  fret  you. 

Lyd.     There's  no  bearing  his  insolence. 

[Bursts   into    tears. 

Enter  MRS.  MALAPROP  and  SIR  ANTHONY. 

Mrs.  Mai.  [Entering]  Come,  we  must  in- 
terrupt your  billing  and  cooing  a  while. 

Lyd.  This  is  worse  than  your  treachery 
and  deceit,  you  base  ingrate!  [Sobbing. 

Sir  Anth.  What  the  devil's  the  matter 
now! — Z — ds!  Mrs.  Malaprop,  this  is  the 
oddest  billing  and  cooing  I  ever  heard  I—- 
But what  the  deuce  is  the  meaning  of  it? — 
I'm  quite  astonished! 

Abs.     Ask   the   lady,    sir. 

Mrs.  Mai.  O  mercy! — I'm  quite  analysed, 
for  my  part! — Why,  Lydia,  what  is  the  rea- 
son of  this? 

Lyd.     Ask    the    gentleman,    ma'am. 

Sir  Anth.  Z — ds!  I  shall  be  in  a  frenzy! 
— Why,  Jack,  you  scoundrel,  you  are  not 
come  out  to  be  any  one  else,  are  you? 

Mrs.  Mai.  Aye,  sir,  there's  no  more  trick, 
is  there? — You  are  not  like  Cerberus,  three 
gentlemen  at  once,  are  you? 

Abs.  You'll  not  let  me  speak. — I  say  the 
lady  can  account  for  this  much  better  than 
I  can. 

Lyd.  Ma'am,  you  once  commanded  me 
never  to  think  of  Beverley  again — there  is 
the  man— I  now  obey  .you:— for,  from  this 
moment,  I  renounce  him  for  ever. 

[Exit   LYDIA. 

Mrs.  Mai.  O  mercy!  and  miracles!  what 
a  turn  here  is!— Why  sure,  Captain,  you 
haven't  behaved  disrespectfully  to  my  niece? 

Sir  Anth.  Ha!  ha!  ha!— ha!  ha!  ha!— now 
I  see  it — ha!  ha!  ha!— now  I  see  it — you  have 
been  too  lively,  Jack. 

Abs.     Nay,   sir,   upon  my  word 

Sir  Anth.  Come,  no  lying,  Jack— I'm  sure 
'twas  so. 

Mrs.  Mai.  O  Lud!  Sir  Anthony!— O  fie, 
Captain ! 

Abs.     Upon    my    soul,    ma'am 

Sir  Anth.  Come,  no  excuses,  Jack; — why, 
your  father,  you  rogue,  was  so  before  you: — 
the  blood  of  the  Absolutes  was  always  im- 
patient.—Ha!  ha!  ha!  poor  little  Lydia!— 


386 


THE  RIVALS 


ACT  IV,  Sc.  III. 


Why,    you've    frightened    her,    you    dog,    you 
have. 

Abs.     By    all   that's   good,    sir 

Sir  Anth.  Z— ds !  say  no  more,  I  tell  you. 
— Mrs.  Malaprop  shall  make  your  peace. — 
You  must  make  his  peace,  Mrs.  Malaprop;— 
you  must  tell  her  'tis  Jack's  way — tell  her 
'tis  all  our  ways — it  runs  in  the  blood  of 
our  family ! — Come,  get  on,  Jack — ha !  ha ! 
ha!  Mrs.  Malaprop— a  young  villain! 

[Pushing   him  out. 
Mrs.    Mai.     O!    Sir   Anthony!— O   fie,    Cap- 


tain! 


[Exeunt   severally. 


SCENE    III 

The  North  Parade. 

Enter  SIR  Lucius  O'TRIGGER. 

Sir  Luc.  I  wonder  where  this  Capt.  Ab- 
colute  hides  himself. — Upon  my  conscience ! 
— these  officers  are  always  in  one's  way  in 
love-affairs. — I  remember  I  might  have  mar- 
ried Lady  Dorothy  Carmine,  if  it  had  not 
been  for  a  little  rogue  of  a  major,  who  ran 
away  with  her  before  she  could  get  a  sight 
of  me ! — And  I  wonder  too  what  it  is  the 
ladies  can  see  in  them  to  be  so  fond  of 
them — unless  it  be  a  touch  of  the  old  ser- 
pent in  'em,  that  makes  the  little  creatures 
be  caught,  like  vipers,  with  a  bit  of  red 
cloth. — Hah  ! — isn't  this  the  Captain  com- 
ing?— faith  it  is! — There  is  a  probability  of 
succeeding  about  that  fellow  that  is  mighty 
provoking ! — Who  the  devil  is  he  talking  to  ? 

[Steps  aside. 

Enter  CAPT.  ABSOLUTE. 

Abs.  To  what  fine  purpose  I  have  been 
plotting!  A  noble  reward  for  all  my 
schemes,  upon  my  soul! — A  little  gyps"y! — 
I  did  not  think  her  romance  could  have  made 
her  so  d — ned  absurd  either. — 'Sdeath,  I 
never  was  in  a  worse  humor  in  my  life ! — I 
could  cut  my  own  throat,  or  any  other 
person's,  with  the  greatest  pleasure  in  the 
world ! 

Sir  Lite.  O,  faith!  I'm  in  the  luck  of  it 
—I  never  could  have  found  him  in  a  sweeter 
temper  for  my  purpose — to  be  sure  I'm  just 
come  in  the  nick!  Now  to  enter  into  con- 
versation with  him,  and  so  quarrel  gen- 
teelly. [SrR  Lucius  goes  up  to  ABSOLUTE] 

With  regard  to  that  matter,  Captain, 

I  must  beg  leave  to  differ  in  opinion  with 
you. 

Abs.  Upon  my  word  then,  you  must  be  a 
very  subtle  disputant:— because,  sir,  I  hap- 
pened just  then  to  be  giving  no  opinion  at 
all. 

Sir  Luc.  That's  no  reason. — For  give  me 
leave  to  tell  you,  a  man  may  think  an  un- 
truth as  well  as  speak  one. 


Abs.  Very  true,  sir,  but  if  a  man  never 
utters  his  thoughts  I  should  think  they 
might  stand  a  chance  of  escaping  contro- 
versy. 

Sir  Luc.  Then,  sir,  you  differ  in  opinion 
with  me,  which  amounts  to  the  same  thing. 

Abs.  Hark'ee,  Sir  Lucius, — if  I  had  not 
before  known  you  to  be  a  gentleman,  upon 
my  soul,  I  should  not  have  discovered  it  at 
this  interview: — for  what  you  can  drive  at, 
unless  you  mean  to  quarrel  with  me,  I 
cannot  conceive ! 

Sir  Luc.  I  humbly  thank  you,  sir,  for  the 
quickness  of  your  apprehension. — [Bowing] 
— You  have  named  the  very  thing  I  would 
be  at. 

Abs.  Very  well,  sir — I  shall  certainly  not 
baulk  your  inclinations — but  I  should  be 
glad  you  would  please  to  explain  your 
motives. 

Sir  Luc.  Pray,  sir,  be  easy — the  quarrel 
is  a  very  pretty  quarrel  as  it  stands — we 
should  only  spoil  it  by  trying  to  explain  it. — 
However,  your  memory  is  very  short — 01 
you  could  not  have  forgot  an  affront  you 
passed  on  me  within  this  week. — So  no  more, 
but  name  your  time  and  place. 

Abs.  Well,  sir,  since  you  are  so  bent  on 
it,  the  sooner  the  better; — let  it  be  this  even- 
ing— here,  by  the  Spring-Gardens. — We  shall 
scarcely  be  interrupted. 

Sir  Luc.  Faith!  that  same  interruption 
in  affairs  of  this  nature  shows  very  great 
ill-breeding. — I  don't  know  what's  the  rea- 
son, but  in  England,  if  a  thing  of  this  kind 
gets  wind,  people  make  such  a  pother  that 
a  gentleman  can  never  fight  in  peace  and 
quietness. — However,  if  it's  the  same  to 
you,  Captain,  I  should  take  it  as  a  par- 
ticular kindness  if  you'd  let  us  meet  in 
King's  Mead-Fields,  as  a  little  business  will 
call  me  there  about  six  o'clock,  and  I  may 
dispatch  both  matters  at  once. 

Abs.     'Tis     the     sam 
little    after    six,    then, 


;     to     me     exactly.— A 
we    will    discuss    this 


matter    more    seriously. 

Sir  Luc.  If  you  please,  sir,  there  will  be 
very  pretty  small-sword  light,  tho'  it  won't 
do  for  a  long  shot.  So  that  matter's  settled! 


and  my  mind's  at  ease! 


[Exit  SIR  Lucius. 


Enter    FAULKLAND,    meeting    ABSOLUTE. 


Abs. 
you.- 


Well   met. — I    was   going    to   look    for 
Faulkland !  all   the   daemons  of  spite 


and  disappointment  have  conspired  against 
me!  I'm  so  vexed  that  if  I  had  not  the 
prospect  of  a  resource  in  being  knocked  on 
the  head  by  and  by,  I  should  scarce  have 
spirits  to  tell  you  the  cause. 

I-' null;.  What  can  you  mean? — Has  Lydia 
changed  her  mind? — I  should  have  thought 
her  duty  and  inclination  would  now  have 


pointed  to  the  same  object. 

387 


ACT  V,  Sc.  I. 


THE  RIVALS 


Abs.  Aye,  just  as  the  eyes  do  of  a  per- 
son who  squints: — when  her  lore-eye  was 
fixed  on  me — t'other— her  eye  of  duty,  was 
Anely  obliqued: — but  when  duty  bid  her 
point  that  the  same  way — off  t'other  turned 
on  a  swivel,  and  secured  its  retreat  with  a 
frown ! 

Faulk.     But    what's    the    resource    you 

Abs.  O,  to  wind  up  the  whole,  a  good- 
natured  Irishman  here  has — [Mimicking  SIR 
Lucius] — begged  leave  to  have  the  pleasure 
of  cutting  my  throat — and  I  mean  to  in- 
dulge him — that's  all. 

Faulk.     Prithee,    be    serious. 

Abs.  'Tis  fact,  upon  my  soul. — Sir  Lucius 
OTrigger — you  know  him  by  sight— for  some 
affront,  which  I  am  sure  I  never  intended, 
has  obliged  me  to  meet  him  this  evening 
at  six  o'clock. — 'Tis  on  that  account  I 
wished  to  see  you — you  must  go  with  me. 

Faulk.  Nay,  there  must  be  some  mistake, 
sure. — Sir  Lucius  shall  explain  himself — 
and  I  dare  say  matters  may  be  accommo- 
dated.— But  this  evening,  did  you  say? — I 
wish  it  had  been  any  other  time. 

Abs.  Why?— there  will  be  light  enough: 
— there  will  (as  Sir  Lucius  says)  "  be  very 
pretty  small-sword  light,  tho'  it  won't  do 
for  a  long  shot." — Confound  his  long  shots ! 

Faulk.  But  I  am  myself  a  good  deal  ruf- 
fled by  a  difference  I  have  had  with  Julia — 
my  vile  tormenting  temper  Las  made  me 
treat  her  so  cruelly  that  I  shall  not  be  my- 
self till  we  are  reconciled. 

Abs.  By  Heavens,  Faulkland,  you  don't 
deserve  her. 

Enter  SERVANT,  gives  FAULKLAND  a  letter. 

Faulk.  O  Jack!  this  is  from  Julia. — I 
dread  to  open  it. — I  fear  it  may  be  to  take 
a  last  leave — perhaps  to  bid  me  return  her 

letters — and  restore O!  how  I  suffer  for 

my  folly ! 

Abs.  Here — let  me  see.  [Takes  the  letter 
and  opens  it]  Aye,  a  final  sentence  indeed! 
— 'tis  all  over  with  you,  faith ! 

Faulk.  Nay,  Jack — don't  keep  me  in  sus- 
pense. 

Abs.  Hear  then. — "  As  I  ant  convinced 
that  my  dear  FAULKLAND'S  own  reflections 
hare  already  upbraided  him  for  his  last  un- 
kindness  to  me,  I  will  not  add  a  word  on 
the  subject. — I  wish  to  speak  with  you  as 
soon  as  possible. — Yours  ever  and  truly, 
JULIA." — There's  stubbornness  and  resent- 
ment for  you!  [Gives  him  the  letter]  Why, 
man,  you  don't  seem  one  whit  happier  at 
this. 

Faulk.     O,   yes,    I   am— but — but 

Abs.  Confound  your  buts. — You  never 
hear  any  thing  that  would  make  another 
man  bless  himself,  but  you  immediately 
d— n  it  with  a  but. 


Faulk.  Now,  Jack,  as  you  are  my  friend, 
own  honestly — don't  you  think  there  is 
something  forward — something  indelicate  in 
this  haste  to  forgive? — Women  should  never 
sue  for  reconciliation: — that  should  always 
come  from  us. — They  should  retain  their 
coldness  till  wooed  to  kindness — and  their 
pardon,  like  their  love,  should  "  not  un- 
sought be  won." 

Abs.  I  have  not  patience  to  listen  to 
you: — thou'rt  incorrigible! — so  say  no  more 
on  the  subject.— I  must  go  to  settle  a  few 
matters. — Let  me  see  you  before  six — re- 
member— at  my  lodgings. — A  poor  indus- 
trious devil  like  me,  who  have  toiled,  and 
drudged,  and  plotted  to  gain  my  ends,  and 
am  at  last  disappointed  by  other  people's 
folly — may  in  pity  be  allowed  to  swear  and 
grumble  a  little; — but  a  captious  sceptic  in 
love, — a  slave  to  fretfulness  and  whim— who 
has  no  difficulties  but  of  Iris  own  creating — 
is  a  subject  more  fit  for  ridicule  than  com- 
passion! [Exit  ABSOLUTE. 

Faulk.  I  feel  his  reproaches ! — yet  I  would 
not  change  this  too  exquisite  nicety  for  the 
gross  content  with  which  he  tramples  on 
the  thorns  of  love.— His  engaging  me  in  this 
duel  has  started  an  idea  in  my  head,  which 
I  will  instantly  pursue.— I'll  use  it  as  the 
touchstone  of  Julia's  sincerity  and  disin- 
terestedness.— If  her  love  prove  pure  and 
sterling  ore — my  name  will  rest  on  it  with 
honor! — and  once  I've  stamped  it  there,  I 
lay  aside  my  doubts  for  ever:— but  if  the 
dross  of  selfishness,  the  allay  of  pride  pre- 
dominate— 'twill  be  best  to  leave  her  as  a 
toy  for  some  less  cautious  fool  to  sigh  for. 
[Exit  FAULKLAND. 

ACT  V 

SCENE   I 

JULIA'S    Dressing-Room. 
JULIA,    sola. 

Jul.  How  this  message  has  alarmed  me! 
What  dreadful  accident  can  he  mean !  why 
such  charge  to  be  alone? — O  Faulkland! — 
how  many  unhappy  moments ! — how  many 
tears  have  you  cost  me! 

Enter  FAULKLAND,  muffled  up  in  a  riding-coat. 

Jul.  What  means  this?— why  this  cau- 
tion, Faulkland? 

Faulk.  Alas!  Julia,  I  am  come  to  take  a 
long  farewell. 

Jul.     Heavens!    what    do    you    mean? 

Faulk.  You  see  before  you  a  wretch, 
whose  life  is  forfeited. — Nay,  start  not! — the 
infirmity  of  my  temper  has  drawn  all  this 
misery  on  me. — I  left  you  fretful  and  pas- 


388 


THE  RIVALS 


ACT  V,  Sc.  I. 


sionate — an  untoward  accident  drew  me  into 
a  quarrel— the  event  is,  that  I  must  fly  this 
kingdom  instantly. — O  Julia,  had  I  been  so 
fortunate  as  to  have  called  you  mine  entirely 
before  this  mischance  had  fallen  on  me,  I 
should  not  so  deeply  dread  my  banishment! 
— But  no  more  of  that — your  heart  and 
promise  were  given  to  one  happy  in  friends, 
character  and  station!  they  are  not  bound 
to  wait  upon  a  solitary,  guilty  exile. 

Jul.  My  soul  is  oppressed  with  sorrow  at 
the  nature  of  your  misfortune:  had  these 
adverse  circumstances  arisen  from  a  less 
fatal  cause,  I  should  have  felt  strong  com- 
fort in  the  thought  that  I  could  now  chase 
from  your  bosom  every  doubt  of  the  warm 
sincerity  of  my  love.— My  heart  has  long 
known  no  other  guardian. — I  now  entrust 
my  person  to  your  honor— we  will  fly  to- 
gether.— When  safe  from  pursuit,  my  fa- 
ther's will  may  be  fulfilled— and  I  receive  a 
legal  claim  to  be  the  partner  of  your  sor- 
rows, and  tenderest  comforter.  Then  on  the 
bosom  of  your  wedded  Julia,  you  may  lull 
your  keen  regret  to  slumbering;  while  vir- 
tuous love,  with  a  cherub's  hand,  shall 
smooth  the  brow  of  upbraiding  thought,  and 
pluck  the  thorn  from  compunction. 

Faulk.  O  Julia!  I  am  bankrupt  in  grati- 
tude! But  the  time  is  so  pressing,  it  calls 
on  you  for  so  hasty  a  resolution — would  you 
not  wish  some  hours  to  weigh  the  advan- 
tages you  forego,  and  what  little  compensa- 
tion poor  Faulkiand  can  make  you  beside 
his  solitary  love  ? 

Jul.  I  ask  not  a  moment. — No,  Faulkiand, 
I  have  loved  you  for  yourself:  and  if  I  now, 
more  than  ever,  prize  the  solemn  engage- 
ment which  so  long  has  pledged  us  to  each 
other,  it  is  because  it  leaves  no  room  for 
hard  aspersions  on  my  fame,  and  puts  the 
seal  of  duty  to  an  act  of  love. — But  let  us 
not  linger. — Perhaps  this  delay 

Faulk.  'Twill  be  better  I  should  not  ven- 
ture out  again  till  dark.— Yet  am  I  grieved 
to  think  what  numberless  distresses  will 
press  heavy  on  your  gentle  disposition! 

Jul.  Perhaps  your  fortune  may  be  for- 
feited by  this  unhappy  act.— I  know  not 
whether  'tis  so — but  sure  that  alone  can 
never  make  us  unhappy. — The  little  I  have 


will    be    sufficient    to    support 
never    should    be    splendid. 

Faulk.  Aye,  but  in  such  an  abject  state 
of  life  my  wounded  pride  perhaps  may  in- 
crease the  natural  fretfulness  of  my  tem- 
per, till  I  become  a  rude,  morose  companion, 
beyond  your  patience  to  endure.  Perhaps 
the  recollection  of  a  deed  my  conscience 
cannot  justify,  may  haunt  me  in  such 
gloomy  and  unsocial  fits,  that  I  shall  hate 
the  tenderness  that  would  relieve  me,  break 
from  your  arms,  and  quarrel  with  ycur  fond- 
ness! 


Jul.  If  your  thoughts  should  assume  so 
unhappy  a  bent,  you  will  the  more  want 
some  mild  and  affectionate  spirit  to  watch 
over  and  console  you: — one  who,  by  bearing 
your  infirmities  with  gentleness  and  resig- 
nation, may  teach  you  so  to  bear  the  evils 
of  your  fortune. 

Faulk.  O  Julia,  I  have  proved  you  to  the 
quick!  and  with  this  useless  device  I  throw 
away  all  my  doubts.  How  shall  I  plead  to 
be  forgiven  this  last  unworthy  effect  of  my 
restless,  unsatisfied  disposition? 

Jul.  Has  no  such  disaster  happened  as 
you  related  ? 

Faulk.  I  am  ashamed  to  own  that  it  was 
all  pretended;  yet  in  pity,  Julia,  do  not  kill 
me  with  resenting  a  fault  which  never  can 
be  repeated:  but  sealing,  this  once,  my  par- 


don,    let     me     to-morrow, 


the     face     of 


Heaven,  receive  my  future  guide  and  moni- 
tress,  and  expiate  my  past  folly  by  years 
of  tender  adoration. 

Jul.  Hold,  Faulkiand !— That  you  are  free 
from  a  crime  which  I  before  feared  to  name, 
Heaven  knows  how  sincerely  I  rejoice ! — 
These  are  tears  of  thankfulness  for  that! 


But  that  your  cruel  doubts  should  have 
urged  you  to  an  imposition  that  has  wrung 
my  heart,  gives  me  now  a  pang  more  keen 
than  I  can  express! 

Faulk.     By   Heavens!  Julia 

Jul.  Yet  hear  me.— My  father  loved  you, 
Faulkiand!  and  you  preserved  the  life  that 
tender  parent  gave  me;  in  his  presence  I 
pledged  my  hand — joyfully  pledged  it — where 
before  I  had  given  my  heart.  When,  soon 
after,  I  lost  that  parent,  it  seemed  to  me 
that  Providence  had,  in  Faulkiand,  shown 
me  whither  to  transfer  without  a  pause  my 
grateful  duty,  as  well  as  my  affection: 
hence  I  have  been  content  to  bear  from 
you  what  pride  and  delicacy  would  have  for- 
bid me  from  another. — I  '  will  not  upbraid 
you  by  repeating  how  you  have  trifled  with 

my   sincerity. 

Faulk.     I   confess   it   all!   yet   hear 

Jul.     After   such    a    year   of    trial— I    might 
have  flattered  myself  that  I  should  not  have 
been    insulted    with    a   new   probation   of    my 
sincerity,     as     cruel     as     unnecessary !        A 
?    little    I    have     trick  of  such  a  nature  as  to  show  me  plainly 
us;    and    exile     that  when  I  thought  you  loved  me  best,  you 
even    then    regarded   me   as   a   mean    dissem- 
bler;   an   artful,    prudent   hypocrite. 
Faulk.     Never!  never! 

Jul.  I  now  see  it  is  not  in  your  nature 
to  be  content  or  confident  in  love.  With 
this  conviction — I  never  will  be  yours. 
While  I  had  hopes  that  my  persevering  at- 
tention and  unreproaching  kindness  might 
in  time  reform  your  temper,  I  should  have 
been  happy  to  have  gained  a  dearer  influ- 
ence over  you;  but  I  will  not  furnish  you 
with  a  licensed  power  to  keep  alive  an  incor- 

389 


ACT  V,  Sc.  I. 


THE  RIVALS 


rigible  fault,  at  the  expense  of  one  who 
never  would  contend  with  you. 

Faulk.  Nay,  but  Julia,  by  my  soul  and 
honor,  if  after  this 

Jul.  But  one  word  more. — As  my  faith 
has  once  been  given  to  you,  I  never  will 
barter  it  with  another.— I  shall  pray  for 
your  happiness  with  the  truest  sincerity; 
and  the  dearest  blessing  I  can  ask  of 
Heaven  to  send  you  will  be  to  charm  you 
from  that  unhappy  temper  which  alone  has 
prevented  the  performance  of  our  solemn 
engagement.— All  I  request  of  you  is  that 
you  will  yourself  reflect  upon  this  infir- 
mity, and  when  you  number  up  the  many 
true  delights  it  has  deprived  you  of — let  it 
not  be  your  least  regret  that  it  lost  you  the 
love  of  one — who  would  have  followed  you 
in  beggary  through  the  world!  [Ex-it. 

Faulk.  She's  gone! — for  ever! — There  was 
an  awful  resolution  in  her  manner,  that 
riveted  me  to  my  place. — O  fool ! — dolt ! — 
barbarian! — Curst  as  I  am  with  more  im- 
perfections than  my  fellow-wretches,  kind 
Fortune  sent  a  heaven-gifted  cherub  to  my 
aid,  and,  like  a  ruffian,  I  have  driven  her 
from  my  side! — I  must  now  haste  to  my 
appointment. — Well,  my  mind  is  tuned  for 
such  a  scene. — I  shall  wish  only  to  become 
a  principal  in  it,  and  reverse  the  tale  my 
cursed  folly  put  me  upon  forging  here. — O 
love !  —  tormentor !  —  fiend !— whose  influence, 
like  the  moon's,  acting  on  men  of  dull  souls, 
makes  idiots  of  them,  but  meeting  subtler 
spirits,  betrays  their  course,  and  urges 
sensibility  to  madness!  [Exit. 

Enter  MAID  and  LYDIA. 

Maid.  My  mistress,  ma'am,  I  know,  was 
here  just  now — perhaps  she  is  only  in  the 
next  room.  [Exit  MAID. 

Lyd.  Heigh-ho !— Though  he  has  used  me 
so,  this  fellow  runs  strangely  in  my  head. 


I   belie 


le 


from   my   grave  cousin 
will    make   me    recall    him. 

Enter  JULIA. 

/.•'-/.  O  Julia,  I  am  come  to  you  with 
such  an  appetite  for  consolation. — Lud!  child, 
what's  the  matter  with  you? — You  have  been 
crying! — I'll  be  hanged  if  that  Faulkland  has 
not  been  tormenting  you! 

Jul.  You  mistake  the  cause  of  my  un- 
easiness.— Something  /.,'.-•  flurried  me  a  little. 
— Nothing  that  you  can  guess  at. — [Aside] 
1  would  not  accuse  Faulkland  to  a  sister! 

Lyd.  Ah !  whatever  vexations  you  may 
have,  I  can  assure  you  mine  surpass 
them. — You  know  who  Beverley  proves  to 
be? 

Jul.  I  will  now  own  to  you,  Lydia,  that 
Mr.  Faulkland  had  before  informed  me  of 


the  whole  affair.  Had  young  Absolute  been 
the  person  you  took  him  for,  I  should  not 
have  accepted  your  confidence  on  the  subject 
without  a  serious  endeavor  to  counteract 
your  caprice. 

Lyd.  So,  then,  I  see  I  have  been  de- 
ceived by  every  one! — But  I  don't  care — I'll 
never  have  him. 

Jul.     Nay,   Lydia 

Lyd.  Why,  is  it  not  provoking;  when  I 
thought  we  were  coming  to  the  prettiest 
distress  imaginable,  to  find  myself  made  a 
mere  Smi thficld  bargain  of  at  last ! — There 
had  I  projected  one  of  the  most  sentimental 
elopements ! — so  becoming  a  disguise ! — so 
amiable  a  ladder  of  ropes ! — Conscious  moon — 
four  horses— Scotch  parson— with  such  sur- 
prise to  Mrs.  Malaprop — and  such  para- 
graphs in  the  news-papers !— O,  I  shall  die 
with  disappointment! 

Jul.     I    don't    wonder    at    it! 

Lyd.  Now — sad  reverse! — what  have  I  to 
expect,  but,  after  a  deal  of  flimsy  prepara- 
tion, with  a  bishop's  licence,  and  my  aunt's 
blessing,  to  go  simpering  up  to  the  altar; 
or  perhaps  be  cried  three  times  in  a  country- 
church,  and  have  an  unmannerly  fat  clerk 
ask  the  consent  of  every  butcher  in  the 
parish  to  join  John  Absolute  and  Lydia 
Languish,  spinster!  O,  that  I  should  live 
to  hear  myself  called  spinster! 

Jul.     Melancholy,    indeed! 

Lyd.  How  mortifying  to  remember  the 
dear  delicious  shifts  I  used  to  be  put  to 
to  gain  half  a  minute's  conversation  with 
this  fellow ! — How  often  have  I  stole  forth 
in  the  coldest  night  in  January,  and  found 
him  in  the  garden,  stuck  like  a  dripping 
statue! — There  would  he  kneel  to  me  in  the 
snow,  -and  sneeze  and  cough  so  pathetically ! 
he  shivering  with  cold,  and  I  with  appre- 
hension !  And  while  the  freezing-  blast 
numbed  our  joints,  how  warmly  would  he 
press  me  to  pity  his  flame,  and  glow  with 
mutual  ardor! — Ah,  Julia,  that  was  some- 
thing like  being  in  love! 

Jul.  If  I  were  in  spirits,  Lydia,  I  should 
chide  you  only  by  laughing  heartily  at  you: 
but  it  suits  more  the  situation  of  my  mind, 
at  present,  earnestly  to  entreat  you  not  to 
let  a  man,  who  loves  you  with  sincerity, 
suffer  that  unhappiness  from  your  caprice, 
which  I  know  too  well  caprice  can  inflict. 


Lyd. 
here! 


O  Lud !  what  has   brought  my   aunt 


Enter  MRS.  MALAPROP,  FAG,  and  DAVID. 

Mrs.  Mai.  So !  so !  here's  fine  work ! — 
here's  fine  suicide,  paracide,  and  salivation 
going  on  in  the  fields!  and  Sir  Anthony  not 
to  be  found  to  prevent  the  an tis trophe ! 

Jul.  For  Heaven's  sake,  madam,  what's 
the  meaning  of  this? 


390 


THE  RIVALS 


ACT  V,  Sc.  II. 


Mrs.   Mai.     That   gentleman  can   tell  you — 
'twas   be  enveloped  the  affair  to  me. 
LyJ.     Do,  sir,  will  you,  inform  us. 

[To    FAG. 

Fag.  Ma'am,  I  should  hold  myself  very 
deficient  in  every  requisite  that  forms  the 
man  of  breeding  if  I  delayed  a  moment  to 
give  all  the  information  in  my  power  to  a 
lady  so  deeply  interested  in  the  affair  as  you 
are. 

Lyd.  But  quick!  quick,  sir! 
Fag.  True,  ma'am,  as  you  say,  one  should 
be  quick  in  divulging  matters  of  this  nature; 
for  should  we  be  tedious,  perhaps  while  we 
are  flourishing  on  the  subject  two  or  three 
lives  may  be  lost! 

Lyd.     O      patience!    —    Do,      ma'am,      for 
Heaven's   sake!   tell   us  what   is   the   matter! 
Mrs.     Mai.     Why,     murder's     the     matter! 
slaughter's  the  matter!  killing's  the  matter! 
— But  he  can  tell  you  the  perpendiculars. 
Lyd.     Then,    prythee,    sir     be    brief. 
Fag.     Why   then,    ma'am — as    to   murder — I 
cannot     take    upon    me    to    say — and    as     to 
slaughter,   or  man-slaughter,  that  will  be  as 
the    jury   finds    it. 

Lyd.  But  who,  sir — who  are  engaged  in 
this? 

Fag.  Faith,  ma'am,  one  is  a  young  gen- 
tleman whom  I  should  be  very  sorry  any- 
thing was  to  happen  to — a  very  pretty  be- 
haved gentleman! — We  have  lived  much  to- 
gether, and  always  on  terms. 

Lyd.     But   who   is   this?   who!   who!   who! 
Fag.     My     master,     ma'am — my     master — I 
•peak    of    my    master. 

Lyd.     Heavens!     What,   Captain   Absolute! 
Mrs.  Mai.     O,  to  be  sure,  you  are  fright- 
ened   now ! 

Jul.     But  who  are  with  him,  sir? 
Fag.     As    to    the   rest,    ma'am,    his    gentle- 
man   can   inform    you   better    than   I. 

Jul.     Do    speak,    friend.  [To     DAVID. 

David.  Look'ee,  my  lady — by  the  Mass! 
there's  mischief  going  on.— Folks  don't  use 
to  meet  for  amusement  with  fire-arms,  fire- 
locks, fire-engines,  fire-screens,  fire-office, 
and  the  devil  knows  what  other  crackers  be- 
sides!—This,  my  lady,  I  say,  has  an  angry 
favor. 

Jul.  But  who  is  there  beside  Captain 
Absolute,  friend  ? 

David.  My  poor  master — under  favor, 
for  mentioning  him  first. — You  know  me, 
my  lady— I  am  David— and  my  master,  of 
course,  is,  or  was,  Squire  Acres. — Then 
comes  Squire  Faulkland. 

Jul.  Do,  ma'am,  let  us  instantly  en- 
deavor to  prevent  mischief. 

Mrs.  Mai.  O  fie— it  would  be  very  inele- 
gant in  us:— we  should  only  participate 
things. 

David.  Ah!  do,  Mrs.  Aunt,  save  a  few 
lives.— They  are  desperately  given,  believe 


me. — Above  all,  there  is  that  blood-thirsty 
Philistine,  Sir  Lucius  O'Trigger. 

Mrs.  Mai.  Sir  Lucius  O'Trigger!— O 
mercy!  have  they  drawn  poor  little  dear  Sir 
Lucius  into  the  scrape?— Why,  how  you 
stand,  girl!  you  have  no  more  feeling  than 
one  of  the  Derbyshire  putrefactions! 

Lyd.     What  are  we   to   do,   madam? 

Mrs.  Mai.  Why,  fly  with  the  utmost 
felicity,  to  be  sure,  to  prevent  mischief. — 
Here,  friend — you  can  show  us  the  place? 

Fag.  If  you  please,  ma'am,  I  will  con- 
duct you. — David,  do  you  look  for  Sir 
Anthony.  [Exit  DAVID. 

Mrs.  Mai.  Come,  girls! — this  gentleman 
will  exhort  us.— Come,  sir,  you're  our  envoy 
— lead  the  way,  and  we'll  precede. 

Fag.  Not  a  step  before  the  ladies  for 
the  world ! 

Mrs.  Mai.  You're  sure  you  know  the 
spot? 

Fag.  I  think  I  can  find  it,  ma'am;  and 
one  good  thing  is  we  shall  hear  the  report 
of  the  pistols  as  we  draw  near,  so  we  can't 
well  miss  them:  never  fear,  ma'am,  never 
fear.  [Exeunt,  he  talking. 


SCENE  II 
South  Parade. 

Enter  ABSOLUTE,   putting  his  sword  under  his 
great-coat. 

Abs.  A  sword  seen  in  the  streets  of  Bath 
would  raise  as  great  an  alarm  as  a  mad- 
dog.  How  provoking  this  is  in  Faulkland! — 
never  punctual !  I  shall  be  obliged  to  go 
without  him  at  last.— O,  the  devil!  here's 

Sir  Anthony! How  shall  I  escape  him? 

[Muffles   up    his    face,    and    takes    a    circle 
to  go   off. 

Enter    SIR    ANTHONY. 

Sir  Anth.  How  one  may  be  deceived  at 
a  little  distance!  Only  that  I  see  he  don't 
know  me,  I  could  have  sworn  that  was 
Jack !— Hey !— 'Gad's  life!  it  is.— Why,  Jack, 
you  dog!— what  are  you  afraid  of?— hey!— 
sure  I'm  right.— Why,  Jack!— Jack  Abso- 
lute! [Goes  up  to  him. 

Abs.  Really,  sir,  you  have  the  advantage 
of  me:— I  don't  remember  ever  to  have  had 

the     honor my    name     is    Saunderson,     at 

your  service. 

Sir  Anth.     Sir,   I  beg  your  pardon— I   took 

you— hey !— why,       z— ds!       it       is stay — 

[Looks  up  to  his  face]— So,  so— your  humble 
servant,  Mr.  Saunderson !— Why,  you  scoun- 
drel, what  tricks  are  you  after  now? 

Abs.  O,  a  joke,  sir,  a  joke!— I  came  here 
on  purpose  to  look  for  you,  sir. 


391 


ACT  V,  Sc.  III. 


THE  RIVALS 


Sir  A  nth.  You  did!  Well,  I  am  glad  you 
were  so  lucky.— But  what  are  you  muffled 
up  so  for?— what's  this  for? — hey? 

Abs.  Tis  cool,  sir;  isn't  it?— rather  chilly, 
somehow? — But  I  shall  be  late— I  have  a  par- 
ticular engagement. 

Sir  Anth.  Stay.— Why,  I  thought  you 
were  looking  for  me? — Pray,  Jack,  where  is't 
you  are  going? 

Abs.     Going,   sir! 

Sir  Anth.     Aye — where   are   you  going? 

Abs.     Where  am  I  going? 

Sir  Anth.     You  unmannerly  puppy! 

Abs.  I  was  going,  sir,  to— to — to — to 
Lydia— sir,  to  Lydia— to  make  matters  up 
if  I  could; — and  I  was  looking  for  you,  sir, 
to— to 

Sir  Anth.  To  go  with  you,  I  suppose. — 
Well,  come  along. 

Abs.  O!  z — ds!  no,  sir,  not  for  the  world! 
—I  wished  to  meet  with  you,  sir, — to — to — 

to You  find  it  cool,  I'm  sure,  sir — 

you'd  better  not  stay  out. 

Sir  Anth.  Cool!— not  at  all.— Well,  Jack— 
and  what  will  you  say  to  Lydia? 

Abs.  O,  sir,  beg  her  pardon,  humor  her-- 
promise  and  vow: — but  I  detain  you,  sir — 
consider  the  cold  air  on  your  gout. 

Sir  Anth.  O,  not  at  all!— not  at  all!— I'm 
in  no  hurry. — Ah!  Jack,  you  youngsters, 
when  once  you  are  wounded  here — [Putting 
his  hand  to  ABSOLUTE'S  breast}  Hey!  what 
the  deuce  have  you  got  here? 

Abs.     Nothing,     sir — nothing. 

Sir  Anth.  What's  this?— Here's  something 
d— d  hard! 

Abs.  O,  trinkets,  sir!  trinkets — a  bauble 
for  Lydia! 

Sir  Anth.  Nay,  let  me  see  your  taste. 
[Pulls  his  coat  open,  the  swords  falls]  Trin- 
kets!— a  bauble  for  Lydia! — z — ds!  sirrah,  you 
are  not  going  to  cut  her  throat,  are 
you? 

Abs.  Ha!  ha!  ha!— I  thought  it  would 
divert  you,  sir;  tho'  I  didn't  mean  to  tell 
you  till  afterwards. 

Sir  Anth.  You  didn't?— Yes,  this  is  a 
very  diverting  trinket,  truly ! 

Abs.  Sir,  I'll  explain  to  you. — You  know, 
sir,  Lydia  is  romantic — devilish  romantic, 
and  very  absurd  of  course. — Now,  sir,  I 
intend,  if  she  refuses  to  forgive  me — 
to  unsheathe  this  sword — and  swear — I'll 
fall  upon  its  point,  and  expire  at  her 
feet! 

Sir  Anth.  Fall  upon  fiddle-stick's  end!— 
why,  I  suppose  it  is  the  very  thing  that 
would  please  her. — Get  along,  you  fool. — 

Abs.  Well,  sir,  you  shall  hear  of  my 
success — you  shall  hear. — "  O  Lydia ! — forgive 
me,  or  this  pointed  steel  " — says  I. 

Sir  Anth.  "  O,  booby !  stab  away  and 
welcome  " — says  she. — Get  along ! — and  d— n 
your  trinkets!  [Exit  ABSOLUTE. 


Enter    DAVID    running. 

Dai'.  Stop  him !  Stop  him !  Murder ! 
Thief!  Fire!— Stop  fire!  Stop  fire!— O!  Sir 
Anthony— Call !  Call!  Bid  'em  stop!  Murder! 
Fire! 

Sir  Anth.     Fire!  Murder!  Where? 

Dav.  Oons!  he's  out  of  sight!  and  I'm 
out  of  breath  for  my  part!  O,  Sir  Anthony, 
why  didn't  you  stop  him?  why  didn't  you 
stop  him  ? 

Sir  Anth.  Z— ds!  the  fellow's  mad!— Stop 
whom?  Stop  Jack? 

/',;,".  Aye,  the  Captain,  Sir! — There's  mur- 
der and  slaughter 

Sir    Anth.     Murder! 

Dav.  Aye,  please  you,  Sir  Anthony, 
there's  all  kinds  of  murder,  all  sorts  of 
slaughter  to  be  seen  in  the  fields:  there's 
fighting  going  on,  sir — bloody  sword-and- 
gun  fighting ! 

Sir  Anth.     Who  are  going  to  fight,  dunce? 

Dav.  Every  body  that  I  know  of,  Sir 
Anthony: — every  body  is  going  to  fight;  my 
poor  master,  Sir  Lucius  O'Trigger,  your  son, 
the  Captain 

Sir  Anth.  O,  the  dog!— I  see  his  tricks. — 
Do  you  know  the  place? 

Dav.     King's    Mead-Fields. 

Sir    Anth.     You    know    the    way? 

Dav.  Not  an  inch;— but  I'll  call  the 
mayor  —  aldermen  —  constables  —  church- 
wardens— and  beadles. — We  can't  be  too 
many  to  part  them. 

Sir  Anth.  Come  along. — Give  me  your 
shoulder!  We'll  get  assistance  as  we  go. — 
The  lying  villain! — Well,  I  shall  be  in  such 
a  frenzy ! — So — this  was  the  history  of  his 
d— d  trinkets!  I'll  bauble  him!  [Exeunt. 


SCENE    III 

King's  Mead-Fields. 

SIR   Lucius  and  ACRES,  with  pistols. 

Acres.  By  my  valor!  then,  Sir  Lucius, 
forty  yards  is  a  good  distance. — Odds  levels 
and  aims! — I  say  it  is  a  good  distance. 

Sir  Luc.  Is  it  for  muskets  or  small  field- 
pieces?  Upon  my  conscience,  Mr.  Acres, 
you  must  leave  those  things  to  me. — Stay 
now — I'll  show  you. — [Measures  paces  along 
the  stage]  There  now,  that  is  a  very  pretty 
distance — a  pretty  gentleman's  distance. 

Acres.  Z — ds!  we  might  as  well  fight  in  a 
sentry-box !— I'll  tell  you,  Sir  Lucius,  the 
farther  he  is  off,  the  cooler  I  shall  take  my 
aim. 

Sir  Luc.  Faith!  then  I  suppose  you  would 
aim  at  him  best  of  all  if  he  was  out  of  sight! 

Acres.  'No,  Sir  Lucius — but  I  should  think 
forty,  or  eight  and  thirty  yards 

Sir  Luc.     Pho!   pho!   nonsense!     Three   or 


392 


THE  RIVALS 


ACT  V,  Sc.  III. 


four   feet   between    the   mouths   of   your   pis- 
tols   is   as   good   as  a   mile. 

Acres.  Odds  bullets,  no! — By  my  valor! 
there  is  no  merit  in  killing  him  so  near. — 
Do,  my  dear  Sir  Lucius,  let  me  bring-  him 
down  at  a  long  shot:— a  long  shot,  Sir 
Lucius,  if  you  love  me! 

Sir  Luc.  Well— the  gentleman's  friend 
and  I  must  settle  that. — But  tell  me  now, 
Mr.  Acres,  in  case  of  an  accident,  is  there 
any  little  will  or  commission  I  could  execute 
for  you  ? 

Acres.  I  am  much  obliged  to  you,  Sir 
Lucius — but  I  don't  understand 

Sir  Luc.  Why,  you  may  think  there's  no 
being  shot  at  without  a  little  risk— and  if 
an  unlucky  bullet  should  carry  a  quietus 
with  it— I  say  it  will  be  no  time  then  to 
be  bothering  you  about  family  matters. 

Acres.     A  quietus! 

Sir  Luc.  For  instance,  now — if  that  should 
be  the  case — would  you  choose  to  be  pickled 
and  sent  home?— or  would  it  be  the  same 
to  you  to  lie  here  in  the  Abbey? — I'm  told 
there  is  very  snug  lying  in  the  Abbey. 

Acres.  Pickled !— Snug  lying  in  the  Ab- 
bey!— Odds  tremors!  Sir  Lucius,  don't  talk 
•o! 

Sir  Luc.  I  suppose,  Mr.  Acres,  you  never 
were  engaged  in  an  affair  of  this  kind  be- 
fore? 

Acres.     No,   Sir  Lucius,   never   before. 

Sir  Luc.     Ah!  that's  a  pity !— there's  noth- 
ing  like   being   used   to   a   thing.— Pray    now, 
how     would 
shot? 

Acres.  Odds  files!— I've  practised  that.— 
There.  Sir  Lucius — there  [Puts  himself  in  an 

attitude] a       side-front,       hey? — Odd!       I'll 

make  myself  small  enough:— I'll  stand  edge- 
ways. 

Sir    Luc.     Now— you're     quite     out— for    if 

you   stand   so   when    I    take   my   aim 

[Levelling   at    him. 

Acres.  Z— ds!  Sir  Lucius— are  you  sure  it 
is  not  cocked  7 

Sir  Luc.     Never  fear. 

Acres.  But— but— you  don't  know— it  may 
go  off  of  its  own  head! 

Sir  Luc.  Pho!  be  easy.— Well,  now  if  I 
hit  you  in  the  body,  my  bullet  has  a  double 
chance — for  if  it  misses  a  vital  part  of  your 
right  side — 'twill  be  very  hard  if  it  don't 
succeed  on  the  left! 

Acres.     A   vital  part!     O,   my   poor   vitals! 

Sir  Luc.  But,  there — fix  yourself  so. — 
[Placing  him]  Let  him  see  the  broad  side  of 
your  full  front. — There. — Now  a  ball  or  two 
may  pass  clean  thro'  your  body,  and  never 
do  any  harm  at  all. 

Acres.  Clean  thro'  me!— a  ball  or  two 
clean  thro'  me ! 

Sir  Luc.  Aye — may  they— and  it  is  much 
the  genteelest  attitude  into  the  bargain. 


you     receive     the     gentleman's 


Acres.  Look'ee!  Sir  Lucius — I'd  just  as 
lieve  be  shot  in  an  awkward  posture  as  a 
genteel  one — so,  by  my  valor!  I  will  stand 
edge-ways. 

Sir  Luc.  [Looking  at  his  watch]  Sure  they 
don't  mean  to  disappoint  us — hah? — No,  faith 
—I  think  I  see  them  coming. 

A  ores.     Hey !— What !— Coming ! 

Sir  Luc.  Aye. — Who  are  those  yonder 
getting  over  the  stile? 

Acres.  There  are  two  of  them  indeed!— 
Well — let  them  come — hey,  Sir  Lucius?  we — 
we — we — we — won't  run. — 

Sir  Luc.     Run ! 

Acres.  No— I  say — we  won't  run,  by  my 
valor ! 

Sir  Luc.  What  the  devil's  the  matter 
with  you  ? 

Acres.  Nothing — nothing — my  dear  friend 
—my  dear  Sir  Lucius— but — I — I — I  don't  feel 
quite  so  bold,  somehow — as  I  did. 

Sir    Luc.     O   fie! — consider    your    honor. 

Acres.  Aye  —  true  —  my  honor.  —  Do,  Sir 
Lucius,  edge  in  a  word  or  two  every  now 
and  then  about  my  honor. 

Sir  Luc.     Well,    here   they're   coming. 

[Looking. 

Acres.  Sir  Lucius — if  I  wa'n't  with  you,  I 
should  almost  think  I  was  afraid.— If  my 
valor  should  leave  me! — Valor  will  come 
and  go. 

Sir  Luc.  Then,  pray,  keep  it  fast  while 
you  have  it. 

Acres.  Sir  Lucius — I  doubt  it  is  going. — 
Yes — my  valor  is  certainly  going! — It  is 
sneaking  off! — I  feel  it  oozing  out  as  it  were 
at  the  palms  of  my  hands! 

Sir  Luc.  Your  honor — your  honor. — Here 
they  are. 

Acres.  O  mercy !— now— that  I  were  safe 
at  Clod-Hall!  or  could  be  shot  before  I  was 
aware ! 

Enter    FAULKLAND    and    ABSOLUTE. 

Sir  Luc.  Gentlemen,  your  most  obedient 
—hah! — what — Captain  Absolute !— So,  I  sup- 
pose, sir,  you  are  come  here,  just  like  my- 
self—to do  a  kind  office,  first  for  your  friend 
— then  to  proceed  to  business  on  your  own 
account. 

Acres.  What,  Jack! — my  dear  Jack!— my 
dear  friend ! 

Abs.     Hark'ee,     Bob,     Beverley's    at    hand. 

Sir  Luc.  Well,  Mr.  Acres— I  don't  blame 
your  saluting  the  gentleman  civilly. — So  Mr. 
Beverley  [to  FAULKLAND],  if  you'll  choose 
your  weapons,  the  Captain  and  I  will  measure 
the  ground. 


Faulk. 
Acres. 


My   weapons,    sir! 

Odds     life!     Sir     Lucius, 


I'm     not 


going  to  fight  Mr.  Faulkland.    These  are  my 


particular  friends. 

Sir    Luc.     What,    sir, 


here  to  fight  Mr.  Acres? 
393 


did    not    you    come 


ACT  V,  Sc.  III. 


THE  RIVALS 


Faulk.     Not    I,    upon    my    word,    sir. 

Sir  Luc.  Well,  now,  that's  mighty  pro- 
voking! But  I  hope,  Mr.  Faulkland,  as  there 
are  three  of  us  come  on  purpose  for  the 
game — you  won't  be  so  cantankerous  as  to 
spoil  the  party  by  sitting  out. 

Abs.  O  pray,  Faulkland,  fight  to  oblige 
Sir  Lucius. 

Faulk.  Nay,  if  Mr.  Acres  is  so  bent  on 
the  matter 

Acres.  No,  no,  Mr.  Faulkland — I'll  bear 
my  disappointment  like  a  Christian. — 
Look'ee,  Sir  Lucius,  there's  no  occasion  at 
all  for  me  to  fight;  and  if  it  is  the  same  to 
you,  I'd  as  lieve  let  it  alone. 

Sir  Luc.  Observe  me,  Mr.  Acres — I  must 
not  be  trifled  with.  You  have  certainly 
challenged  somebody — and  you  came  here  to 
fight  him. — Now,  if  that  gentleman  is  willing 
to  represent  him— I  can't  see,  for  my  soul, 
why  it  isn't  just  the  same  thing. 

Acres.  Z — ds,  Sir  Lucius — I  tell  you,  'tis 
one  Beverley  I've  challenged — a  fellow,  you 
see,  that  dare  not  show  his  face!  If  he  were 
here,  I'd  make  him  give  up  his  pretensions 
directly ! 

Ab'sf  Hold,  Bob — let  me  set  you  right. — 
There  is  no  such  man  as  Beverley  in  the 
case. — The  person  who  assumed  that  name 
is  before  you;  and  as  his  pretensions  are 
the  same  in  both  characters,  he  is  ready 
to  support  them  in  whatever  way  you  please. 

Sir  Luc.  Well,  this  is  lucky!— Now  you 
have  an  opportunity 

Acres.  What,  quarrel  with  my  dear  friend 
Jack  Absolute?— Not  if  he  were  fifty  Bev- 
erleys!  Z — ds!  Sir  Lucius,  you  would  not 
have  me  be  so  unnatural. 

Sir  Luc.  Upon  my  conscience,  Mr.  Acres, 
your  valor  has  oozed  away  with  a  venge- 
ance! 

Acres.  Not  in  the  least!  Odds  backs  and 
abettors!  I'll  be  your  second  with  all  my 
heart — and  if  you  should  get  a  quietus,  you 
may  command  me  entirely.  I'll  get  you  a 
snug  lying  in  the  Abbey  here;  or  pickle  you, 
and  send  you  over  to  Blunderbuss-hall,  or 
any  thing  of  the  kind,  with  the  greatest 
pleasure. 

Sir  Luc.  Pho!  pho!  you  are  little  better 
than  a  coward. 

Acres.  Mind,  gentlemen,  he  calls  me  a 
coward;  coward  was  the  word,  by  my  valor! 

Sir  Luc.    Well,  sir? 

Acres.  Look'ee,  Sir  Lucius,  'tisn't  that  I 
mind  the  word  coward. — Coward  may  be  said 
in  joke.— But  if  you  had  called  me  a  poltroon, 
odds  daggers  and  balls! 

Sin  Luc.     Well,    sir? 

Acres.  1  should  have  thought  you  a 

very  ill-bred  man. 

Sir  Luc.  Pho!  you  are  beneath  my 
notice. 

Abs.    Nay,   Sir   Lucius,   you  can't   have   a 


better  second  than  my  friend  Acres.— He  is 
a  most  determined  dog — called  in  the  country, 
Fighting  Bob. — He  generally  kills  a  man  a 
week;  don't  you,  Bob? 

Acres.     Aye — at  home! 

Sir  Luc.  Well  then,  Captain,  'tis  we  must 
begin.— So  come  out,  my  little  counsellor 
[Draws  his  sword],  and  ask  the  gentleman, 
whether  he  will  resign  the  lady  without  forc- 
ing you  to  proceed  against  him. 

Abs.  Come  on  then,  sir;  [Draws]  since 
you  won't  let  it  be  an  amicable  suit,  here's 
my  reply. 

Enter  SIR  ANTHONY,   DAVID,  and  the   Women. 

David.     Knock    'em    all    down,    sweet    Sir 

par- 


Anthony;    knock    down    my    master 


ticular— and  bind  his  hands  over  to  their 
good  behavior ! 

Sir  Anth.  Put  up,  Jack,  put  up,  or  I 
shall  be  in  a  frenzy.— How  came  you  in  a 
duel,  sir? 

Abs.  Faith,  sir,  that  gentleman  can  tell 
you  better  than  I;  'twas  he  called  on  me, 
and  you  know,  sir,  I  serve  his  Majesty. 

.SVr  Anth.  Here's  a  pretty  fellow!  I  catch 
him  going  to  cut  a  man's  throat,  and  he 
tells  me  he  serves  his  Majesty !— Z— ds ! 
sirrah,  then  how  durst  you  draw  the  king's 
sword  against  one  of  his  subjects? 

Abs.  Sir,  I  tell  you!  That  gentleman 
called  me  out,  without  explaining  his  rea- 


Gad!  sir,  how  came  you  to  call 


sons. 

Sir  Anth. 

my    son    out    without    explaining    your    rea- 
sons? 

Sir  Luc.  Your  son,  sir,  insulted  me  in 
a  manner  which  my  honor  could  not  brook. 

Sir  Anth.  Z — ds!  Jack,  how  durst  you 
insult  the  gentleman  in  a  manner  which  his 
honor  could  not  brook? 

Mrs.  Mai.  Come,  come,  let's  have  no 
honor  before  ladies. — Captain  Absolute,  come 
here. — How  could  you  intimidate  us  so?— 
Here's  Lydia  has  been  terrified  to  death 
for  you.  , 

Abs.  For  fear  I  should  be  killed,  or  es- 
cape, ma'am  ? 

Mrs.  Mai.  Nay,  no  delusions  to  the  past. 
— Lydia  is  convinced. — Speak,  child. 

Sir  Luc.  With  your  leave,  ma'am,  I  must 
put  in  a  word  here.— I  believe  I  could  inter- 
pret the  young  lady's  silence.— Now  mark 

Lyd.     What  is  it  you   mean,   sir? 

Sir  Luc.  Come,  come,  Delia,  we  must  be 
serious  now — this  is  no  time  for  trifling. 

Lyd.  Tis  true,  sir;  and  your  reproof  bids 
me  offer  this  gentleman  my  hand,  and  solicit 
the  return  of  his  affections. 

Abs.  O!  my  little  angel,  say  you  so? — 
Sir  Lucius — I  perceive  there  must  be  some 
mistake  here. — With  regard  to  the  affront, 
which  you  affirm  I  have  given  you— I  can 
only  say  that  it  could  not  have  been  in- 


394 


THE  RIVALS 


ACT  V,  So.  III. 


tentional. — And  as  you  must  be  convinced 
that  I  should  not  fear  to  support  a  real  in- 
jury— you  shall  now  see  that  I  am  not 
ashamed  to  atone  for  an  inadvertency. — I  ask 
your  pardon. — But  for  this  lady,  while  hon- 
ored with  her  approbation,  I  will  support 
my  claim  against  any  man  whatever. 

Sir  A  nth.  Well  said,  Jack!  and  I'll  stand 
by  you,  my  boy. 

Acres.  Mind,  I  give  up  all  my  claim — I 
make  no  pretensions  to  anything  in  the 
world — and  if  I  can't  get  a  wife  without 
fighting  for  her,  by  my  valor!  I'll  live  a 
bachelor. 

Sir  Luc.  Captain,  give  me  your  hand. — 
An  affront  handsomely  acknowledged  be- 
comes an  obligation. — And  as  for  the  lady — 
if  she  chooses  to  deny  her  own  hand-writing 
here [.Taking  out  letters. 

Mrs.  Mai.  O,  he  will  dissolve  my  mys- 
tery ! — Sir  Lucius,  perhaps  there's  some  mis- 
take— perhaps,  I  can  illuminate 

Sir     Luc.     Pray,     old     gentlewoman,     don't 


have 
you 


no 
my 


business. — 
Delia,     or 


interfere  where  you 
Miss  Languish,  are 
not? 

Lyd.     Indeed,    Sir   Lucius,    I    am    not. 

I.LYDIA  and  ABSOLUTE  walk  aside. 

Mrs.  Mai.  Sir  Lucius  O'Trigger — ungrate- 
ful as  you  are — I  own  the  soft  impeachment. 
— Pardon  my  blushes,  I  am  Delia. 

Sir   Lite.     You    Delia! — pho!  pho!  be   easy. 

Mrs.  Mai.  Why,  thou  barbarous  Vandyke! 
— those  letters  are  mine.— When  you  are 
more  sensible  of  my  benignity — perhaps  I 
may  be  brought  to  encourage  your  addresses. 

Sir  Luc.  Mrs.  Malaprop,  I  am  extremely 
sensible  of  your  condescension;  and  whether 
you  or  Lucy  have  put  this  trick  upon  me, 
I  am  equally  beholden  to  you. — And  to  show 
you  I'm  not  ungrateful — Captain  Absolute! 
since  you  have  taken  that  lady  from  me, 
I'll  give  you  my  Delia  into  the  bargain. 

Abs.  I  am  much  obliged  to  you,  Sir 
Lucius;  but  here's  our  friend,  Fighting  Bob, 
unprovided  for. 

Sir  Luc.  Hah!  little  Valor— here,  will  you 
make  your  fortune  ? 

Acres.     Odds    wrinkles! 


No. — But   give   us 


your  hand,  Sir  Lucius;  forget  and  forgive. 
But  if  ever  I  give  you  a  chance  of  pickling 
me  again,  say  Bob  Acres  is  a  dunce,  that's 
all. 

Sir  A  nth.  Come,  Mrs.  Malaprop,  don't  be 
cast  down — you  are  in  your  bloom  yet. 

Mrs.    Mai.     O    Sir    Anthony! — men    are    all 

barbarians 

[All  retire  but  JULIA  and  FAULKLAND. 

Jal.  [Aside]  He  seems  dejected  and  un- 
happy— not  sullen. — There  was  some  founda- 
tion, however,  for  the  tale  he  told  me. — O 
woman !  how  true  should  be  your  judgment, 
when  your  resolution  is  so  weak ! 

Faulk.     Julia! — how   can    I    sue   for  what    I 


so   little   deserve?     I    dare   not   presume — yet 
Hope  is  the  child  of  Penitence. 

Jit  I.  Oh!  Faulkland,  you  have  not  been 
more  faulty  in  your  unkind  treatment  of  me 
than  I  am  now  in  wanting  inclination  to 
resent  it.  As  my  heart  honestly  bids  me 
place  my  weakness  to  the  account  of  love, 
I  should  be  ungenerous  not  to  admit  the 
same  plea  for  yours. 

Faulk.     Now   I    shall  be   blest  indeed! 

[SiR   ANTHONY    comes   forward. 

Sir  Anth.  What's  going  on  here? — So  you 
have  been  quarrelling  too,  I  warrant. — Come, 
Julia,  I  never  interfered  before;  but  let  me 
have  a  hand  in  the  matter  at  last.— All  the 
faults  I  have  ever  seen  in  my  friend  Faulk- 
land seemed  to  proceed  from  what  he  calls 
the  delicacy  and  warmth  of  his  affection  for 
you. — There,  marry  him  directly,  Julia. 
You'll  find  he'll  mend  surprisingly! 

[The  rest  come  forward. 

Sir  Luc.  Come  now,  I  hope  there  is  no 
dissatisfied  person  but  what  is  content;  for 
as  I  have  been  disappointed  myself,  it  will 
be  very  hard  if  I  have  not  the  satisfaction 
of  seeing  other  people  succeed  better 

Acres.  You  are  right,  Sir  Lucius. — So, 
Jack,  I  wish  you  joy.— Mr.  Faulkland  the 
same. — Ladies, — come  now,  to  show  you  I'm 
neither  vexed  nor  angry,  odds  tabors  and 
pipes!  I'll  order  the  fiddles  in  half  an  hour 
to  the  New  Rooms — and  I  insist  on  you  all 
meeting  me  there. 

Sir  Anth.  Gad!  sir,  I  like  your  spirit;  and 
at  night  we  single  lads  will  drink  a  health 
to  the  young  couples,  and  a  husband  to  Mrs. 
Malaprop. 

Faulk.  Our  partners  are  stolen  from  us, 
Jack — I  hope  to  be  congratulated  by  each 
other — yours  for  having  checked  in  time 
the  errors  of  an  ill-directed  imagination, 
which  might  have  betrayed  an  innocent 
heart;  and  mine,  for  having,  by  her  gentle- 
ness and  candor,  reformed  the  unhappy 
temper  of  one  who  by  it  made  wretched 
whom  he  loved  most,  and  tortured  the  heart 
he  ought  to  have  adored. 

Abs.  Well,  Faulkland,  we  have  both 
tasted  the  bitters,  as  well  as  the  sweets,  of 
love — with  this  difference  only,  that  you 
always  prepared  the  bitter  cup  for  yourself, 
while  7 

Lyd.     Was    always    obliged    to    me    for    it, 

hey,  Mr.  Modesty? But  come,  no  more  of 

that — our   happiness   is   now   as  unalloyed   as 
general. 

I iiL  Then  let  us  study  to  preserve  it  so; 
and  while  Hope  pictures  to  us  a  flattering 
scene  of  future  Bliss,  let  us  deny  its  pencil 
those  colors  which  are  too  bright  to  be  last- 
ing.— When  Hearts  deserving  Happiness 
would  unite  their  fortunes,  Virtue  would 
crown  them  with  an  unfading  garland  of 
modest,  hurtless  flowers;  but  ill- judging 


395 


EPILOGUE 


THE  RIVALS 


Passion  will  force  the  gaudier  Rose  into  the 
wreath,  whose  thorn  offends  them,  when  its 
leaves  are  dropt!  [Exeunt  omnes. 

EPILOGUE 

BY    THE    AUTHOR. 

Spoken  by  MRS.  BULKLEY. 
Ladies,  for  you — I  heard  our  poet  say — 
He'd   try   to  coax  some   moral  from  his  play: 
One     moral's     plain — cried     I — without     more 

fuss; 

Man's   social  happiness   all  rests  on   us — 
Thro'  all  the  drama— whether  d — ned  or  not— 
Love   gilds   the  scene,   and  women   guide   the 

plot. 

From  every  rank — obedience  is  our  due — 
D'ye   doubt?— The   world's   great   stage    shall 

prove    it    true. 
The     cit — well     skilled     to     shun     domestic 

strife- 
Will    sup    abroad;— but    first— he'll    ask    his 

wife  : 
John   Trot,   his   friend— for  once,   will   do  the 

same, 
But    then— he'll    just    step    home    to    tell    my 

dame. — 

The  surly  'Squire — at  noon  resolves  to  rule, 
And  half  the  day — zounds !  madam  is  a  fool ! 
Convinced  at  night — the  vanquished  victor 

says, 
Ah!    Kate!    you    women    have    such    coaxing 

ways! — 

The  jolly  toper  chides  each  tardy  blade, — 
Till  reeling  Bacchus  calls  on  love  for  aid: 
Then  with  each  toast,  he  sees  fair  bumpers 

swim, 

And  kisses  Chloe  on  the  sparkling  brim! 
Nay,    I    have   heard    that    statesmen— great 

and    wise — 

Will  sometimes  counsel  with  a  lady's  eyes; 
The  servile  suitors — watch  her  various  \ 

face, 
She     smiles    preferment — or    she    frowns    V 

disgrace,  i 

Curtsies    a    pension    here — there    nods    a   J 

place. 


Nor   with    less   awe,    in    scenes   of    humbler 

life, 
Is     viewed     the    mistress,     or    is    heard     the 

wife. 

The  poorest   peasant  of   the   poorest   soil, 
The  child  of  poverty,  and  heir  to   toil — 
Early  from  radiant  love's  impartial  light, 
Steals    one    small    spark,    to   cheer   his   world 

of  night: 
Dear   spark !— that  oft   thro'  winter's   chilling 

woes, 

Is  all   the   warmth   his  little  cottage  knows! 
The   wand'ring   tar — who  not   for   years  has 

pressed 

The   widowed   partner  of  his   day   of   rest- 
On    the    cold    deck — far    from    her    arms    re- 
moved— 

Still  hums  the  ditty  which  his  Susan   loved: 
And  while  around  the  cadence  rude  is  blown, 
The  boatswain  whistles   in   a  softer   tone. 
The    soldier,    fairly    proud    of    wounds    and 

toil, 

Pants  for  the   triumph  of  his  Nancy's  smile; 
But  ere  the  battle  should  he  list'  her  cries, 
The   lover   trembles— and   the   hero   dies! 
That    heart,    by    war    and    honor    steeled    to 

fear, 

Droops  on  a  sigh,  and  sickens  at  a  tear! 
But     ye     more     cautious — ye    nice     judging 

few, 

Who  give   to   beauty  only  beauty's   due, 
Tho'     friends     to     love — ye     view     with     deep 

regret 

Our     conquests     marred — our     triumphs     in- 
complete, 

'Till  polished  Wit   more  lasting  charms   dis- 
close, 
And   Judgment   fix    the    darts   which   Beauty 

throws ! 

— In  female  breasts  did  Sense  and  Merit  rule, 
The  lover's  mind  would  ask  no  other  school; 
Shamed  into  sense — the  scholars  of  our 

eyes, 

Our  Beaux  from  gallantry  would  soon  be  wise; 
Would  gladly  light,  their  homage  to  improve, 
The    Lamp    of    Knowledge    at    the    Torch    of 
Love! 


396 


PROLOGUE 

WRITTEN    BY    MR.    GARRICK 

A  SCHOOL  for  Scandal !  tell  me,  I  beseech  you, 

Needs  there  a  school  this  modish  art  to  teach  you? 

No   need  of  lessons   now,   the   knowing   think; 

We  might  as  well  be  taught  to  eat  and  drink. 

Caused  by  a  dearth  of  scandal,  should  the  vapors 

Distress  our  fair  ones — let  them  read  the  papers; 

Their  powerful  mixtures  such  disorders  hit; 

Crave  what  you   will — there's   quantum  sufficit. 

"Lord!  "  cries  my  Lady  Wormwood  (who  loves  tattle, 

And  puts  much  salt  and  pepper  in  her  prattle), 

Just  risen  at  noon,  all  night  at  cards  when  threshing 

Strong  tea  and  scandal — "  Bless  me,  how  refreshing ! 

Give  me  the  papers,  Lisp — how  bold  and  free !     [Sips. 

Last  night  Lord  L.  [Sips]  was  caught  with  Lady  D. 

For  aching  heads  what  charming  sal  volatile !     [Sips. 

If   Mrs.   B.   -will   still   continue   flirting, 

We  hope  she'll  DRAW,  or  we'll  UNDRAW  the  curtain. 

Fine  satire,  poz — in  public  all  abuse  it, 

But,  by  ourselves   [Sips],  our  praise  we  can't  refuse  it. 

Now,  Lisp,  read  you — there,  at  that  dash  and  star :" 

"Yes,  ma'am — A  certain  lord  had  best  beware, 

Who  lives  not  twenty  miles  from  Grosvenor  Square; 

For,  should  he  Lady  W.  find  willing, 

Wormwood  is  bitter  " "  Oh,  that's  me !  the  villain ! 

Throw  it  behind  the  fire,  and  never  more 

Let  that  vile  paper  come  within  my  door." 

Thus  at  our  friends  we  laugh,  who  feel  the  dart; 

To  reach  our  feelings,  we  ourselves  must  smart. 

Is  our  young  bard  so  young,  to  think  that  he 

Can  stop  the  full  spring-tide  of  calumny? 

Knows  he  the  world  so  little,  and  its-  trade? 

Alas !  the  devil's  sooner  raised  than  laid. 

So  strong,  so  swift,  the  monster  there's  no  gagging: 

397 


ACT  I,  Sc.  I. 


THE  SCHOOL  FOR  SCANDAL 


Cut  Scandal's  head  off,  still  the  tongue  is  wagging. 

Proud  of  your  smiles  once  lavishly  bestowed, 

Again  our  young  Don  Quixote  takes  the"  road; 

To  show  his  gratitude  he  draws  his  pen, 

And  seeks  his  hydra,  Scandal,  in  his  den. 

For  your  applause  all  perils  he  would  through — 

He'll  fight — that's  write — a  cavalliero  true, 

Till  every  drop  of  blood — that's  ink — is  spilt  for  you. 


DRAMATIS  PERSONS  * 


SIR    PETER    TEAZLE. 

SIR    OLIVER    SURFACE. 

YOUNG  SURFACE. 

CHARLES,  his  Brother. 

CRABTREE. 

SIR    BENJAMIN    BACKBITE. 

ROWLEY. 

SPUNGE. 


MOSES. 

SNAKE. 

CARELESS — and  other  companions  to  CHARLES. 

LADY  TEAZLE. 

MARIA. 

LADY  SNEERWELL. 

MRS.    CANDOUR. 

Miss    VERJUICE. 


ACT  I 

SCENE  I 
LADY   SNEERWELL'S  House. 

LADY    SNEERWELL    at    her   dressing    table   with 
LAPPET;  Miss  VERJUICE  drinking  chocolate. 

Lady  Sneer.  The  paragraphs  you  say 
•were  all  inserted? 

Verj.  They  were,  madam— and  as  I  copied 
them  myself  in  a  feigned  hand  there  can  be 
no  suspicion  whence  they  came. 

Lady  Sneer.  Did  you  circulate  the  report 
of  Lady  Brittle's  intrigue  with  Captain 
Boastall? 

Verj.  Madam,  by  this  time  Lady  Brittle 
is  the  talk  of  half  the  town — and  I  doubt 
not  in  a  week  the  men  will  toast  her  as  a 
demirep. 

Lady  Sneer.  What  have  you  done  as  to 
the  insinuation  as  to  a  certain  baronet's 
lady  and  a  certain  cook  ? 

Verj.  That  is  in  as  fine  a  train  as  your 
Ladyship  could  wish.  I  told  the  story  yes- 
terday to  my  own  maid  with  directions  to 
communicate  it  directly  to  my  hairdresser. 
He,  I  am  informed,  has  a  brother  who  courts 
a  milliner's  prentice  in  Pallmall,  whose  mis- 
tress has  a  first  cousin  whose  sister  is 
femme  de  chambre  to  Mrs.  Clackit — so  that 
in  the  common  course  of  things  it  must 
reach  Mrs.  Clackit's  ears  within  four-and- 
1  From  Sheridan's  manuscript. 


twenty  hours,  and  then  you  know  the  busi- 
ness is  as  good  as  done. 

Lady  Sneer.  Why,  truly,  Mrs.  Clackit  has 
a  very  pretty  talent— a  great  deal  of  industry 
— yet — yes — been  tolerably  successful  in  her 
way.  To  my  knowledge  she  has  been  the 
cause  of  breaking  off  six  matches,  of  three 
sons  being  disinherited  and  four  daughters 
being  turned  out  of  doors,  of  three  several 
elopements,  as  many  close  confinements, 
nine  separate  maintenances,  and  two  di- 
vorces.— Nay,  I  have  more  than  once  traced 
her  causing  a  Tete-a-Tete  in  the  Town  and 
Country  Magazine,  when  the  parties  per- 
haps had  never  seen  each  other's  faces  be- 
fore in  the  course  of  their  lives. 

Verj.     She    certainly    has    talents. 

Lady  Sneer.     But  her  manner  is  gross. 

Verj.  'Tis  very  true.  She  generally  de- 
signs well,  has  a  free  tongue,  and  a  bold  in- 
vention; but  her  coloring  is  too  dark  and 
her  outline  often  extravagant.  She  wants 
that  delicacy  of  tint  and  mellowness  of 
sneer  which  distinguish  your  Ladyship's 
scandal. 

Lady  Sneer.     Ah,  you  are  partial,  Verjuice. 

Verj.  Not  in  the  least;  everybody  allows 
that  Lady  Sneerwell  can  do  more  with  a 
word  or  a  look  than  many  can  with  the  most 
labored  detail  even  when  they  happen  to 
have  a  little  truth  on  their  side  to  support  it. 

Lady  Sneer.  Yes,  my  dear  Verjuice.  I 
am  no  hypocrite  to  deny  the  satisfaction  I 
reap  from  the  success  of  my  efforts. 


398 


THE  SCHOOL  FOR  SCANDAL 


ACT  I,  Sc.  I. 


Wounded  myself  in  the  early  part  of  my 
life  by  the  envenomed  tongue  of  slander,  I 
confess  I  have  since  known  no  pleasure 
equal  to  the  reducing  others  to  the  level  of 
my  own  injured  reputation. 

Verj.  Nothing  can  be  more  natural. 
But,  my  dear  Lady  Sneerwell,  there  is  one 
affair  in  which  you  have  lately  employed 
me,  wherein,  I  confess,  I  am  at  a  loss  to 
guess  your  motives. 

Lady  Sneer.  I  conceive  you  mean  with 
respect  to  my  neighbor,  Sir  Peter  Teazle, 
and  his  family — Lappet. — And  has  my  con- 
duct in  this  matter  really  appeared  to  you 


so    mysterious  ? 
Verj.     Entirely  so. 


[Exit    MAID. 
An  old  bachelor  as  Sir 


Peter  was,  having  taken  a  young  wife  from 
out  of  the  country— as  Lady  Teazle  is — are 
certainly  fair  subjects  for  a  little  mischievous 
raillery;  but  here  are  two  young  men  to 
whom  Sir  Peter  has  acted  as  a  kind  of 
guardian  since  their  father's  death,  the  eldest 
possessing  the  most  amiable  character  and 
universally  well  spoken  of,  the  youngest  the 
most  dissipated  and  extravagant  young  fel- 
low in  the  kingdom,  without  friends  or  char- 
acter— the  former  one  an  avowed  admirer  of 
yours  and  apparently  your  favorite,  the  lat- 
ter attached  to  Maria,  Sir  Peter's  ward— and 
confessedly  beloved  by  her.  Now  on  the  face 
of  these  circumstances  it  is  utterly  unac- 
countable to  me  why  you,  a  young  widow 
with  no  great  jointure,  should  not  close  with 
the  passion  of  a  man  of  such  character  and 
expectations  as  Mr.  Surface,  and  more  so 
why  you  should  be  so  uncommonly  ear- 
nest to  destroy  the  mutual  attachment  sub- 
sisting between  his  brother  Charles  and 
Maria. 

Lady  Sneer.  Then  at  once  to  unravel  this 
mystery,  I  must  inform  you  that  love  has 
no  share  whatever  in  the  intercourse  between 
Mr.  Surface  and  me. 

Verj.     No! 

Lady  Sneer.  His  real  attachment  is  to 
Maria  or  her  fortune,  but  finding  in  his 
brother  a  favored  rival,  he  has  been 
obliged  to  mask  his  pretensions  and  profit 
by  my  assistance. 

Verj.  Yet  still  I  am  more  puzzled  why 
you  should  interest  yourself  in  his  success. 

Lady  Sneer.  Heavens !  how  dull  you  are ! 
cannot  you  surmise  the  weakness  which  I 
hitherto  thro'  shame  have  concealed  even 
from  you — must  I  confess  that  Charles — that 
libertine,  that  extravagant,  that  bankrupt  in 
fortune  and  reputation — that  he  it  is  for 
whom  I  am  thus  anwious  and  malicious  and 
to  gain  whom  I  would  sacrifice — every- 
thing ? 

Verj.  Now  indeed,  your  conduct  appears 
consistent  and  I  no  longer  wonder  at  your 
enmity  to  Maria;  but  how  came  you  and 
Surface  so  confidential? 


Lady  Sneer.  For  our  mutual  interest;  but 
I  have  found  out  him  a  long  time  since, 
altho'  he  has  contrived  to  deceive  every- 
body beside.  I  know  him  to  be  artful,  selfish, 
and  malicious — while  with  Sir  Peter,  and  in- 
deed with  all  his  acquaintance,  he  passes  for 
a  youthful  miracle  of  prudence,  good  sense, 
and  benevolence. 

Verj.  Yes,  yes— I  know  Sir  Peter  vows  he 
has  not  his  equal  in  England;  and,  above 
all,  he  praises  him  as  a  man  of  sentiment. 

Lady  Sneer.  True,  and  with  the  assistance 
of  his  sentiments  and  hypocrisy  he  has 
brought  Sir  Peter  entirely  in  his  interests 
with  respect  to  Maria,  and  is  now,  I  be- 
lieve, attempting  to  flatter  Lady  Teazle  into 
the  same  good  opinion  towards  him — while 
poor  Charles  has  no  friend  in  the  house — 
though  I  fear  he  has  a  powerful  one  in 
Maria's  heart,  against  whom  we  must  direct 
our  schemes. 

Sen'.     Mr.   Surface. 

Lady  Sneer.  Show  him  up.  He  generally 
calls  about  this  time.  I  don't  wonder  at 
people's  giving  him  to  me  for  a  lover. 

Enter    SURFACE. 

Surf.  My  dear  Lady  Sneerwell,  how  do 
you  do  to-day— your  most  obedient. 

Lady  Sneer.  Miss  Verjuice  has  just  been 
arraigning  me  on  our  mutual  attachment 
now;  but  I  have  informed  her  of  our  real 
views  and  the  purposes  for  which  our 
geniuses  at  present  co-operate.  You  know 
how  useful  she  has  been  to  us — and  believe 
me,  the  confidence  is  not  ill-placed. 

Surf.  Madam,  it  is  impossible  for  me  to 
suspect  that  a  lady  of  Miss  Verjuice's  sensi- 
bility and  discernment 

Lady  Sneer.  Well,  well,  no  compliments 
now;  but  tell  me  when  you  saw  your  mis- 
tress or,  what  is  more  material  to  me,  your 
brother? 

Surf.  I  have  not  seen  either  since  I  saw 
you,  but  I  can  inform  you  that  they  are  at 
present  at  variance;  some  of  your  stories 
have  taken  good  effect  on  Maria. 

Lady  Sneer.  Ah!  my  dear  Verjuice,  the 
merit  of  this  belongs  to  you.  But  do  your 
brother's  distresses  increase? 

Surf.  Every  hour.  I  am  told  he  had 
another  execution  in  his  house  yesterday; 
in  short  his  dissipation  and  extravagance 
exceed  anything  I  have  ever  heard  of. 

Lady    Sneer.     Poor   Charles! 

Surf.  True,  madam,  notwithstanding  his 
vices  one  can't  help  feeling  for  him;  ah,  poor 
Charles!  I'm  sure  I  wish  it  was  in  my  power 
to  be  of  any  essential  service  to  him,  for  the 
man  who  does  not  share  in  the  distresses 
of  a  brother — even  though  merited  by  his 
own  misconduct — deserves 

Lady  Sneer.     O  Lud,  you  are  going  to  be 


399 


ACT  I,  Sc.  I. 


THE  SCHOOL  FOR  SCANDAL 


moral,  and  forget  that  you  are  among 
friends. 

Surf.  Egad,  that's  true— I'll  keep  that 
sentiment  till  I  see  Sir  Peter.  However,  it 
is  certainly  a  charity  to  rescue  Maria  from 
such  a  libertine  who,  if  he  is  to  be  re- 
claimed, can  be  so  only  by  a  person  of  your 
ladyship's  superior  accomplishments  and 
understanding. 

I'crj.     'Twould  be  a  hazardous  experiment. 

Surf.  But,  madam,  let  me  caution  you  to 
place  no  more  confidence  in  our  friend  Snake 
the  libeller;  I  have  lately  detected  him  in 
frequent  conference  with  old  Rowley,  who 
was  formerly  my  father's  steward  and  has 
never  been  a  friend  of  mine. 

Lady  Sneer.  I'm  not  disappointed  in 
Snake;  I  never  suspected  the  fellow  to  have 
virtue  enough  to  be  faithful  even  to  his  own 
villany. 

Enter  MARIA. 

Maria,  my  dear,  how  do  you  do?  What's 
the  matter? 

Maria.  O,  here  is  that  disagreeable  lover 
of  mine,  Sir  Benjamin  Backbite,  has  just 
called  at  my  guardian's  with  his  odious 
Uncle  Crabtree;  so  I  slipt  out  and  ran 
hither  to  avoid  them. 

Lady  Sneer.     Is  that  all? 

Verj.  Lady  Sneerwell,  I'll  go  and  write 
the  letter  I  mentioned  to  you.  [Exit  VERJ. 

Surf.  If  my  brother  Charles  had  been  of 
the  party,  madam,  perhaps  you  would  not 
have  been  so  much  alarmed. 

Lady  Sneer.  Nay,  now,  you  are  severe, 
for  I  dare  swear  the  truth  of  the  matter  is 
Maria  heard  you  were  here;  but,  my  dear, 
what  has  Sir  Benjamin  done  that  you  should 
avoid  him  so? 

Mar.  Oh,  he  has  done  nothing;  but  his 
conversation  is  a  perpetual  libel  on  all  his 
acquaintance. 

Surf.  Aye,  and  the  worst  of  it  is  there 
is  no  advantage  in  not  knowing  them,  for 
he'll  abuse  a  stranger  just  as  soon  as  his 
best  friend — and  Crabtree  is  as  bad. 

Lady  Sneer.  Nay,  but  we  should  make 
allowance — Sir  Benjamin  is  a  wit  and  a  poet. 

Mar.  For  my  part — I  own,  madam — wit 
loses  its  respect  with  me,  when  I  see  it  in 
company  with  malice. — What  do  you  think, 
Mr.  Surface? 

Surf.  Certainly,  madam,  to  smile  at  the 
jest  which  plants  a  thorn  on  another's  breast 
is  to  become  a  principal  in  the  mischief. 

Lady  Sneer.  Pshaw,  there's  no  possibility 
of  being  witty  without  a  little  ill-nature — 
the  malice  of  a  good  thing  is  the  barb  that 
makes  it  stick.— What's  your  opinion,  Mr. 
Surface  ? 

Surf.  Certainly,  madam — that  conversa- 
tion where  the  spirit  of  raillery  is  suppressed 
will  ever  appear  tedious  and  insipid. 


Mar.  Well,  I'll  not  debate  how  far  scandal 
may  be  allowable — but  in  a  man  I  am  sure  it 
is  always  contemptible.  We  have  pride, 
envy,  rivalship,  and  a  thousand  motives  to 
depreciate  each  other,  but  the  male-slan- 
derer must  have  the  cowardice  of  a  woman 
before  he  can  traduce  one. 

Lady  Sneer.  I  wish  my  cousin  Verjuice 
hadn't  left  us — she  should  embrace  you. 

Surf.  Ah!  she's  an  old  maid  and  is  privi- 
leged of  course. 

Enter    SERVANT. 

Madam,  Mrs.  Candour  is  below  and  if  your 
Ladyship's  at  leisure  will  leave  her  carriage. 

Lady  Sneer.  Beg  her  to  walk  in  [Exit 
SERVANT].  Now,  Maria,  however  here  is  a 
character  to  your  taste,  for  tho'  Mrs.  Can- 
dour is  a  little  talkative,  everybody  allows 
her  to  be  the  best-natured  and  best  sort  of 
woman. 

Mar.  Yes,  with  a  very  gross  affectation  of 
good  nature  and  benevolence,  she  does  more 
mischief  than  the  direct  malice  of  old  Crab- 
tree. 

Surf.  Efaith,  'tis  very  true,  Lady  Sneer- 
well.  Whenever  I  hear  the  current  running 
again  the  characters  of  my  friends,  I  never 
think  them  in  such  danger  as  when  Candour 
undertakes  their  defence. 

Lady  Sneer.     Hush,  here  she  is 

Enter    MRS.    CANDOUR. 

Mrs.  Can.  My  dear  Lady  Sneerwell,  how 
have  you  been  this  century?  I  have  never 
seen  you  tho'  I  have  heard  of  you  very  often. 
—Mr.  Surface,  the  world  says  scandalous 
things  of  you — but  indeed  it  is  no  matter 
what  the  world  says,  for  I  think  one  hears 
nothing  else  but  scandal. 

Surf.     Just  so,  indeed,  ma'am. 

Mrs.  Can.  Ah,  Maria,  child — what!  is  the 
whole  affair  off  between  you  and  Charles? 
His  extravagance,  I  presume — the  town  talks 
of  nothing  else 

Mar.  I  am  very  sorry,  ma'am,  the  town 
has  so  little  to  do. 

Mrs.  Can.  True,  true,  child;  but  there's 
no  stopping  people's  tongues.  I  own  I  was 
hurt  to  hear  it — as  I  indeed  was  to  learn 
from  the  same  quarter  that  your  guardian, 
Sir  Peter,  and  Lady  Teazle  have  not  agreed 
lately  so  well  as  could  be  wished. 

Mar.  'Tis  strangely  impertinent  for  peo- 
ple to  busy  themselves  so. 

Mrs.  Can.  Very  true,  child;  but  what's  to 
be  done?  People  will  talk— there's  no  pre- 
venting it.  Why,  it  was  but  yesterday  I 
was  told  that  Miss  Gadabout  had  eloped  with 
Sir  Filagree  Flirt.  But,  Lord!  there  is  no 
minding  what  one  hears;  tho'  to  be  sure  I 
had  this  from  very  good  authority. 

Mar.     Such  reports   are  highly   scandalous. 

Mrs.    Can.     So    they    are,    child— shameful ! 


400 


THE  SCHOOL  FOR  SCANDAL 


ACT  I,  Sc.  I. 


shameful!  but  the  world  is  so  censorious  no 
character  escapes.  Lord,  now!  who  would 
have  suspected  your  friend,  Miss  Prim,  of 
an  indiscretion;  yet  such  is  the  ill-nature 
of  people  that  they  say  her  uncle  stopped 
her  last  week  just  as  she  was  stepping  into 
a  postchaise  with  her  dancing-master. 

Mar.  I'll  answer  for't  there  are  no 
grounds  for  the  report. 

Mrs.  Can.  Oh,  no  foundation  in  the  world 
I  dare  swear;  no  more  probably  than  for  the 
story  circulated  last  month,  of  Mrs.  Fes- 
tino's  affair  with  Colonel  Cassino — though 
to  be  sure  that  matter  was  never  rightly 
cleared  up. 

Surf.  The  licence  of  invention  some  peo- 
ple take  is  monstrous  indeed. 

Mar.  'Tis  so;  but  in  my  opinion  those 
who  report  such  things  are  equally  culpable. 

Mrs.  Can.  To  be  sure  they  are;  tale 
bearers  are  as  bad  as  the  tale  makers — 'tis 
an  old  observation  and  a  very  true  one — but 
what's  to  be  done,  as  I  said  before?  How 
will  you  prevent  people  from  talking?  To- 
day Mrs.  Clackitt  assured 'me  Mr.  and  Mrs. 
Honeymoon  were  at  last  become  mere  man 
and  wife — like  the  rest  of  their  acquaintance; 
she  likewise  hinted  that  a  certain  widow  in 
the  next  street  had  got  rid  of  her  dropsy  and 
recovered  her  shape  in  a  most  surprising 
manner;  at  the  same  time  Miss  Tattle,  who 
was  by,  affirmed  that  Lord  Boffalo  had  dis- 
covered his  Lady  at  a  house  of  no  extraordi- 
nary fame,  and  that  Sir  Harry  Bouquet  and 
Tom  Saunter  were  to  measure  swords  on  a 
similar  provocation.  But,  Lord!  do  you 
think  I  would  report  these  things?  No, 
no!  tale  bearers,  as  I  said  before,  are  just 
as  bad  as  the  tale  makers. 

Surf.  Ah!  Mrs.  Candour,  if  everybody 
had  your  forbearance  and  good  nature — 

Mrs.  Can.  I  confess,  Mr.  Surface,  I  cannot 
bear  to  hear  people  traduced  behind  their 
backs;  and  when  ugly  circunjstances  come 
out  against  our  acquaintances,  I  own  I  al- 
ways love  to  think  the  best.— By  the  bye,  I 
hope  'tis  not  true  that  your  brother  is  abso- 
lutely ruined — 

Surf.  I  am  afraid  his  circumstances  are 
very  bad  indeed,  ma'am. 

Mrs.  Can.  Ah!  I  heard  so;  but  you  must 
tell  him  to  keep  up  his  spirits;  everybody 
almost  is  in  the  same  way — Lord  Spindle, 
Sir  Thomas  Splint,  Captain  Quinze,  and  Mr. 
Nickit — all  up,  I  hear,  within  this  week;  so 
if  Charles  is  undone,  he'll  find  half  his  ac- 
quaintance ruined  too,  and  that,  you  know, 
is  a  consolation — 

Surf.     Doubtless,  ma'am,  a  very  great  one. 

Enter    SERVANT. 
Serv.     Mr.     Crabtree     and     Sir     Benjamin 
Backbite. 

Lady    Sneer.     Soh!    Maria,    you    see    your 


you.      Positively    you    shan't 


lover    pursues 
escape. 

Enter  CRABTREE  and  SIR  BENJAMIN   BACKBITE. 

Crab.  Lady  Sneerwell,  I  kiss  your  hand. 
Mrs.  Candour,  I  don't  believe  you  are  ac- 
quainted with  my  nephew,  Sir  Benjamin 
Backbite.  Egad,  ma'am,  he  has  a  pretty 
wit,  and  is  a  pretty  poet  too,  isn't  he,  Lady 
Sneerwell  ? 

Sir  Ben.     O   fie,   uncle! 

Crab.  Nay,  egad,  it's  true.  I  back  him 
at  a  rebus  or  a  charade  against  the  best 
rhymer  in  the  kingdom.  Has  your  Ladyship 
heard  the  epigram  he  wrote  last  week  on 
Lady  Frizzle's  feather  catching  fire? — do, 
Benjamin,  repeat  it — or  the  charade  you  made 
last  night  extempore  at  Mrs.  Drowzie's  con- 
versazione?— Come  now,  your  first  is  the 
name  of  a  fish,  your  second  a  great  naval 
commander — and — 

Sir  Ben.     Dear  uncle — now — prithee 

Crab.  Efaith,  ma'am,  'twould  surprise  you 
to  hear  how  ready  he  is  at  all  these  things. 

Lady  Sneer.  I  wonder,  Sir  Benjamin,  you 
never  publish  anything. 

Sir  Ben.  To  say  truth,  ma'am,  'tis  very 
vulgar  to  print,  and  as  my  little  productions 
are  mostly  satires  and  lampoons,  I  find  they 
circulate  more  by  giving  copies  in  confidence 
to  the  friends  of  the  parties;  however,  I  have 
some  love-elegies,  which,  when  favored  with 
this  lady's  smile,  I  mean  to  give  to  the 
public.  [.Pointing  to  MARIA. 

Crab.  'Fore  Heaven,  ma'am,  they'll  im- 
mortalize you — you'll  be  handed  down  to 
posterity,  like  Petrarch's  Laura,  or  Waller's 
Sacharissa. 

Sir  Ben.  Yes,  madam,  I  think  you  will 
like  them — when  you  shall  see  in  a  beautiful 
quarto  page  how  a  neat  rivulet  of  text  shall 
meander  thro'  a  meadow  of  margin— 'fore 
Gad,  they  will  be  the  most  elegant  things  of 
their  kind — 

Crab.     But,     ladies,     have    you     heard     the 

What,    sir,    do    you    mean    the 


news? 


Mrs.    Can. 
report  of 

Crab.  No,  ma'am,  that's  not  it. — Miss 
Nicely  is  going  to  be  married  to  her  own 
footman. 

Mrs.  Can.     Impossible! 

Crab.     Ask   Sir  Benjamin. 

Sir  Ben.  'Tis  very  true,  ma'am;  every- 
thing is  fixed  and  the  wedding  livery  be- 
spoke. 

Crab.  Yes,  and  they  say  there  were  press- 
ing reasons  for't. 

Mrs.  Can.  It  cannot  be — and  I  wonder  any 
one  should  believe  such  a  story  of  so  prudent 
a  lady  as  Niss  Nicely. 

Sir  Ben.  O  Lud!  ma'am,  that's  the  very 
reason  'twas  believed  at  once.  She  has  al- 
ways been  so  cautious  and  so  reserved  that 


401 


ACT  I,  Sc.  I. 


THE  SCHOOL  FOR  SCANDAL 


everybody  was  sure  there  was  some  reason 
for  it  at  bottom. 

Lady  Sneer.  Yes,  a  tale  of  scandal  is  as 
fatal  to  the  reputation  of  a  prudent  lady  of 
her  stamp  as  a  fever  is  generally  to  those 
of  the  strongest  constitutions,  but  there  is 
a  sort  of  puny  sickly  reputation,  that  is  al- 
ways ailing  yet  will  outlive  the  robuster 
characters  of  a  hundred  prudes. 

Sir  Ben.  True,  madam,  there  are  valetudi- 
narians in  reputation  as  well  as  constitution, 
who  being  conscious  of  their  weak  part,  avoid 
the  least  breath  of  air,  and  supply  their  want 
of  stamina  by  care  and  circumspection. 

Mrs.  Can.  Well,  but  this  may  be  all  mis- 
take. You  know,  Sir  Benjamin,  very  trifling 
circumstances  often  give  rise  to  the  most 
injurious  tales. 

Crab.  That  they  do  I'll  be  sworn,  ma'am. 
Did  you  ever  hear  how  Miss  Shepherd  came 
to  lose  her  lover  and  her  character  last 
summer  at  Tunbridge? — Sir  Benjamin,  you 
remember  it. 

Sir  Ben.  O  to  be  sure  the  most  whimsical 
circumstance — 

Lady  Sneer.     How   was   it,   pray? 

Crab.  Why,  one  evening  at  Mrs.  Ponto's 
assembly,  the  conversation  happened  to  turn 
on  the  difficulty  of  breeding  Nova-Scotia 
sheep  in  this  country— says  a  young  lady  in 
company,  "  I  have  known  instances  of  it — 
for  Miss  Letitia  Shepherd,  a  first  cousin  of 
mine,  had  a  Nova-Scotia  sheep  that  pro- 
duced her  twins," — "  What !  "  cries  the  old 
Dowager  Lady  Dundizzy  (who  you  know  is  as 
deaf  as  a  post),  "  has  Miss  Letitia  Shepherd 
had  twins  ?  " — This  mistake — as  you  may 
imagine,  threw  the  whole  company  into  a  fit 
of  laughing.  However,  'twas  the  next  morn- 
ing everywhere  reported  and  in  a  few  days 
believed  by  the  whole  town  that  Miss  Letitia 
Shepherd  had  actually  been  brought  to  bed 
of  a  fine  boy  and  girl,  and  in  less  than  a 
week  there  were  people  who  could  name  the 
father,  and  the  farm  house  where  the  babies 
were  put  out  to  nurse. 

Lady  Sneer.     Strange  indeed! 

Crab.  Matter  of  fact,  I  assure  you.  O 
Lud!  Mr.  Surface,  pray,  is  it  true  that  your 
uncle  Sir  Oliver  is  coming  home? 

Surf.     Not   that   I   know   of   indeed,   sir. 

Crab.  He  has  been  in  the  East  Indies  a 
long  time — you  can  scarcely  remember  him— 
I  believe — sad  comfort  on  bis  arrival  to  hear 
how  your  brother  has  gone  on ! 

Surf.  Charles  has  been  imprudent,  sir, 
to  be  sure;  but  I  hope  no  busy  people  have 
already  prejudiced  Sir  Oliver  against  him. 
He  may  reform. 

Sir  Ben.  To  be  sure  he  may;  for  my  part 
I  never  believed  him  to  be  so  utterly  void 
of  principle  as  people  say;  and  tho*  he  has 
lost  all  his  friends,  I  am  told  nobody  is  better 
spoken  of — by  the  Jews. 


(';.;/'.  That's  true,  egad,  nephew;  if  the 
Old  Jewry  was  a  ward  I  believe  Charles 
would  be  an  alderman — no  man  more  popular 
there;  'fore  Gad,  I  hear  he  pays  as  many 
annuities  as  the  Irish  Tontine,  and  that 
whenever  he's  sick  they  have  prayers  for  the 
recovery  of  his  health  in  the  synagogue. 

Sir  Ben.  Yet  no  man  lives  in  greater 
splendor: — they  tell  me  when  he  entertains 
his  friends,  he  can  sit  down  to  dinner  with 
a  dozen  of  his  own  securities,  have  a  score 
of  tradesmen  waiting  in  the  ante-chamber, 
and  an  officer  behind  every  guest's  chair. 

Surf.  This  may  be  entertainment  to  you, 
gentlemen,  but  you  pay  very  little  regard  to 
the  feelings  of  a  brother. 

Mar.  Their  malice  is  intolerable.  Lady 
Sneerwell,  I  must  wish  you  a  good  morn- 


ing— I'm    not   very    well. 


[Exit    MAR. 


Mrs.  Can.  O  dear,  she  changed  color  very 
much! 

Lady  Sneer.  Do,  Mrs.  Candour,  follow  her 
—she  may  want  assistance. 

Mrs.  Can.  That  I  will  with  all  my  soul, 
ma'am.— Poor,  dear  girl— who  knows— what 
her  situation  may  be!  [Exit  MRS.  CAN. 

Lady  Sneer.  'Twas  nothing  but  that  she 
could  not  bear  to  hear  Charles  reflected  on 
notwithstanding  their  difference. 

Sir  Ben.  The  young  lady's  penchant  is 
obvious. 

Crab.  But,  Benjamin,  you  mustn't  give  up 
the  pursuit  for  that— follow  her  and  put  her 
into  good  humor— repeat  her  some  of  your 
verses— come,  I'll  assist  you — 

Sir  Ben.  Mr.  Surface,  I  did  not  mean  to 
hurt  you,  but  depend  on't  your  brother  is 
utterly  undone.  [Going. 

Crab.  O  Lud!  aye — undone — as  ever  man 
was— can't  raise  a  guinea. 

Sir  Ben.  And  everything  sold,  I'm  told, 
that  was  movable.  [Going. 

Crab.  I  was  at  his  house — not  a  thing 
left  but  some  empty  bottles  that  were  over- 
looked and  the  family  pictures,  which  I  be- 
lieve are  framed  in  the  wainscot.  [Going. 

Sir  Ben.  And  I'm  very  sorry  to  hear  also 
some  bad  stories  against  him.  [Going. 

Crab.  O  he  has  done  many  mean  things, 
that's  certain! 

Sir  Ben.  But  however,  as  he  is  your 
brother [Going. 

Crab.  We'll  tell  you  all  another  oppor- 
tunity. [Exeunt. 

Lady  Sneer.  Ha!  ha!  ha!  'tis  very  hard 
for  them  to  leave  a  subject  they  have  not 
quite  run  down. 

Surf.  And  I  believe  the  abuse  was  no 
more  acceptable  to  your  ladyship  than  Maria. 

Lady  Sneer.  I  doubt  her  affections  are 
farther  engaged  than  we  imagined;  but  the 
family  are  to  be  here  this  evening,  so  you 
may  as  well  dine  where  you  are  and  we  shall 


have    an    opportunity    of    observing    farther. 

402 


THE  SCHOOL  FOR  SCANDAL 


ACT  I,  Sc.  II. 


In    the    meantime,    I'll    go   and   plot    mischief 
and    you    shall    study    sentiments.       [Exeunt. 

SCENE    II 
SIR  PETER'S  House. 
Enter  SIR  PETER. 

Sir  Pet.  When  an  old  bachelor  takes  a 
young  wife,  what  is  he  to  expect?  'Tis  now 
six  months  since  Lady  Teazle  made  me  the 
happiest  of  men — and  I  have  been  the  most 
miserable  dog  ever  since  that  ever  com- 
mitted wedlock.  We  tift  a  little  going  to 
church— and  came  to  a  quarrel  before  the 
bells  had  done  ringing.  I  was  more  than 
once  nearly  choked  with  gall  during  the 
honeymoon,  and  had  lost  all  comfort  in  life 
before  my  friends  had  done  wishing  me  joy. 
Yet  I  chose  with  caution — a  girl  bred  wholly 
in  the  country — who  never  knew  luxury  be- 
yond one  silk  gown — nor  dissipation  above 
the  annual  gala  of  a  race-ball.  Yet  she  now 
plays  her  part  in  all  the  extravagant  fop- 
peries of  the  fashion  and  the  town,  with  as 
ready  a  grace  as  if  she  had  never  seen  a 
bush  nor  a  grass  plot  out  of  Grosvenor- 
Square!  I  am  sneered  at  by  my  old  ac- 
quaintance— paragraphed — in  the  newspapers. 
She  dissipates  my  fortune,  and  contradicts 
all  my  humors.  Yet  the  worst  of  it  is  I 
doubt  I  love  her  or  I  should  never  bear  all 
this.  However,  I'll  never  be  weak  enough  to 
own  it. 

Enter    ROWLEY. 

Row.  Sir  Peter,  your  servant: — how  is't 
with  you,  sir? 

Sir  Pet.  Very  bad— Master  Rowley — very 
bad.  I  meet  with  nothing  but  crosses  and 
vexations. 

Row.  What  can  have  happened  to  trouble 
you  since  yesterday? 

Sir  Pet.  A  good  question  to  a  married 
man — 

Row.  Nay,  I'm  sure  your  lady,  Sir  Peter, 
can't  be  the  cause  of  your  uneasiness. 

Sir  Pet.  Why,  has  anybody  told  you  she 
was  dead? 

Row.  Come,  come,  Sir  Peter,  you  love  her, 
notwithstanding  your  tempers  do  not  ex- 
actly agree; 

Sir  Pet.  But  the  fault  is  entirely  hers, 
Master  Rowley;  I  am  myself  the  sweetest 
tempered  man  alive,  and  hate  a  teasing 
temper;  and  so  I  tell  her  a  hundred  times  a 
day. 

Row.     Indeed! 

Sir  Pet.  Aye,  and  what  is  very  extraordi- 
nary in  all  our  disputes,  she  is  always  in  the 
wrong!  But  Lady  Sneerwell  and  the  set  she 
meets  at  her  house  encourage  the  perverse- 


ness  of  her  disposition.  Then  to  complete 
my  vexations,  Maria,  my  ward,  whom  I  ought 
to  have  the  power  of  a  father  over,  is  deter- 
mined to  turn  rebel  too  and  absolutely  re- 
fuses the  man  whom  I  have  long  resolved  on 
for  her  husband — meaning,  I  suppose,  to  be- 
stow herself  on  his  profligate  brother. 

Row.  You  know,  Sir  Peter,  I  have  al- 
ways taken  the  liberty  to  differ  with  you  on 
the  subject  of  these  two  young  gentlemen; 
I  only  wish  you  may  not  be  deceived  in 
your  opinion  of  the  elder.  For  Charles,  my 
life  on't!  He  will  retrieve  his  errors  yet; 
their  worthy  father,  once  my  honored  mas- 
ter, was  at  his  years  nearly  as  wild  a  spark. 

Sir  Pet.  You  are  wrong,  Master  Rowley. 
On  their  father's  death  you  know  I  acted  as 
a  kind  of  guardian  to  them  both,  till  their 
uncle  Sir  Oliver's  Eastern  bounty  gave  them 
an  early  independence.  Of  course  no  person 
could  have  more  opportunities  of  judging 
of  their  hearts — and  I  was  never  mistaken 
in  my  life.  Joseph  is  indeed  a  model  for 
the  young  men  of  the  age.  He  is  a  man  of 
sentiment  and  acts  up  to  the  sentiments  he 
professes;  but  for  the  other,  take  my  word 
for't,  if  he  had  any  gain  of  virtue  by  descent, 
he  has  dissipated  it  with  the  rest  of  his  in- 
heritance. Ah !  my  old  friend,  Sir  Oliver, 
will  be  deeply  mortified  when  he  finds  how 
part  of  his  bounty  has  been  misapplied. 

Row.  1  am  sorry  to  find  you  so  violent 
against  the  young  man  because  this  may  be 
the  most  critical  period  of  his  fortune.  I 
came  hither  with  news  that  will  surprise  you. 

Sir  Pet.     What!   let   me   hear. 

Row.  Sir  Oliver  is  arrived  and  at  this 
moment  in  town. 

Sir  Pet.  How !— you  astonish  me — I  thought 
you  did  not  expect  him  this  month! 

Row.  I  did  not,  but  his  passage  has  been 
remarkably  quick. 

Sir  Pet.  Egad,  I  shall  rejoice  to  see  my 
old  friend.  'Tis  sixteen  years  since  we  met. 
We  have  had  many  a  day  together.  But  does 
he  still  enjoin  us  not  to  inform  his  nephews 
of  his  arrival? 

Row.  Most  strictly.  He  means,  before  he 
makes  it  known,  to  make  some  trial  of  their 
dispositions,  and  we  have  already  planned 
something  for  the  purpose. 

Sir  Pet.  Ah,  there  needs  no  art  to  discover 
their  merits;  however,  he  shall  have  his  way. 
But  .pray  does  he  know  I  am  married? 

Row.     Yes,  and  will  soon  wish  you  joy. 

Sir  Pet.  You  may  tell  him  'tis  too  late. 
Ah,  Oliver  will  laugh  at  me — we  used  to  rail 
at  matrimony  together — but  he  has  been 
steady  to  his  text.  Well,  he  must  be  at  my 
house  Iho'— I'll  instantly  give  orders  for  his 
reception.  But,  Master  Rowley,  don't  drop 
a  word  that  Lady  Teazle  and  I  ever  disagree. 

Row.     By   no   means. 

Sir    Pet.     For    I    should    never   be    able    to 


403 


ACT  II,  Sc.  I. 


THE  SCHOOL  FOR  SCANDAL 


stand  Noll's  jokes;  so  I'd  have  him  think 
that  we  are  a  very  happy  couple. 

Row.  I  understand  you;  but  then  you 
must  be  very  careful  not  to  differ  while  he's 
in  the  house  with  you. 

Sir  Pet.  Egad — and  so  we  must — that's  im- 
possible. Ah!  Master  Rowley,  when  an  old 
bachelor  marries  a  young  wife,  he  deserves 
— no,  the  crime  carries  the  punishment  along 
with  it.  [Exeunt. 

ACT    II 

SCENE  I 

[At  SIR  PETER'S.] 
SIR  PETER  and  LADY  TEAZLE. 

Sir  Pet.  Lady  Teazle,  Lady  Teazle,  I'll 
not  bear  it. 

Lady  Teas.  Sir  Peter,  Sir  Peter,  you— 
may  scold  or  smile,  according  to  your 
humor,  but  I  ought  to  have  my  own  way 
in  everything,  and  what's  more  I  will  too. 
What!  tho'  I  was  educated  in  the  country, 
I  know  very  well  that  women  of  fashion  in 
London  are  accountable  to  nob  dy  after  they 
are  married. 

Sir  Pet.  Very  well!  ma'am,  very  well!  so 
a  husband  is  to  have  no  influence,  no 
authority  ? 

Lady  Teas.  Authority!  no,  to  be  sure — if 
you  wanted  authority  over  me,  you  should 
have  adopted  me  and  not  married  me:  I  am 
sure  you  were  old  enough. 

Sir  Pet.  Old  enough — aye,  there  it  is — 
well— well— Lady  Teazle,  tho'  my  life  may  be 
made  unhappy  by  your  temper— I'll  not  be 
ruined  by  your  extravagance. 

Lady  Teas.  My  extravagance!  I'm  sure 
I'm  not  more  extravagant  than  a  woman  of 
fashion  ought  to  be. 

Sir  Pet.  .  No,  no,  madam,  you  shall 
throw  away  no  more  sums  on  such  unmean- 
ing luxury.  'Slife  to  spend  as  much  to  fur- 
nish your  dressing  room  with  flowers  in 
winter  as  would  suffice  to  turn  the  Pantheon 
into  a  greenhouse,  and  give  a  Fete  Champetre 
at  Christmas. 

Lady  Teas.  Lord!  Sir  Peter,  am  I  to  blame 
because  flowers  are  dear  in  cold  weather? 
You  should  find  fault  with  the  climate,  and 
not  with  me.  For  my  part  I'm  sure  I  wish 
it  was  spring  all  the  year  round — and  that 
roses  grew  under  one's  feet! 

Sir  Pet.  Oons!  madam,  if  you  had  been 
born  to  those  fopperies,  I  shouldn't  wonder 
at  your  talking  thus;  but  you  forget  what 
your  situation  was  when  I  married  you. 

Lady  Teas.  No,  no,  I  don't;  'twas  a  very 
disagreeable  one  or  I  should  never  have 
married  you. 

Sir  Pet.  Yes,  yes,  madam,  you  were  then 
in  somewhat  a  humbler  style — the  daughter 
of  a  plain  country  squire.  Recollect,  Lady 


Teazle,  when  I  saw  you  first— sitting  at  your 
tambour  in  a  pretty  figured  linen  gown — with 
a  bunch  of  keys  at  your  side,  and  your 
apartment  hung  round  with  fruits  in  worsted, 
of  your  own  working. 

Lady  Teas.  O  horrible !— horrible !— don't 
put  me  in  mind  of  it! 

Sir  Pet.  Yes,  yes,  madam,  and  your  daily 
occupation  to  inspect  the  dairy,  superintend 
the  poultry,  make  extracts  from  the  family 
receipt-book,  and  comb  your  aunt  Deborah's 
lap  dog. 

Lady    Teas.     Abominable ! 

Sir  Pet.  Yes,  madam,  and  what  were  your 
evening  amusements?  To  draw  patterns  for 
ruffles,  which  you  hadn't  the  materials  to 
make,  play  Pope  Joan  with  the  curate,  to 
read  a  sermon  to  your  aunt,  or  be  stuck 
down  to  an  old  spinet  to  strum  your  father 
to  sleep  after  a  fox  chase. 

Lady  Teas.  Scandalous — Sir  Peter,  not  a 
word  of  it  true. 

Sir  Pet.  Yes,  madam,  these  were  the 
recreations  I  took  you  from;  and  now — no 
one  more  extravagantly  in  the  fashion— 
every  foppery  adopted— a  head-dress  to  o'er- 
top  Lady  Pagoda  with  feathers  pendant, 
horizontal,  and  perpendicular.  You  forget, 
Lady  Teazle,  when  a  little  wired  gauze  with 
a  few  beads  made  you  a  fly  cap  not  much 
bigger  than  a  blew-bottle,  and  your  hair  was 
combed  smooth  over  a  roll. 

Lady    Teas.     Shocking!   horrible   roll!! 

Sir  Pet.  But  now — you  must  have  your 
coach — Vis-a-vis,  and  three  powdered  footmen 
before  your  chair — and  in  the  summer  a  pair 
of  white  cobs  to  draw  you  to  Kensington 
Gardens — no  recollection  when  you  were  con- 
tent to  ride  double,  behind  the  butler,  on  a 
docked  coach-horse! 

Lady   Teaz.     Horrid!— I   swear  I   never  did. 

Sir  Pet.  This,  madam,  was  your  situation 
— and  what  have  I  not  done  for  you?  I  have 
made  you  woman  of  fashion,  of  fortune,  of 
rank — in  short  I  have  made  you  my  wife. 

Lady  Teaz.  Well,  then,  and  there  is  but 
one  thing  more  you  can  make  me  to  add  to 
the  obligation. 

Sir  Pet.     What's   that,   pray? 

Lady  Teaz.     Your  widow. 

Sir  Pet.  Thank  you,  madam — but  don't 
flatter  yourself,  for  though  your  ill-conduct 
may  disturb  my  peace,  it  shall  never  break 
my  heart,  I  promise  you.  However  I  am 
equally  obliged  to  you  for  the  hint. 

Lady  Teas.  Then,  why  will  you  endeavor 
to  make  yourself  so  disagreeable  to  me  and 
thwart  me  in  every  little  elegant  expense? 

Sir  Pet.  'Slife,  madam,  I  pray,  had  you 
any  of  these  elegant  expenses  when  you  mar- 
ried me? 

Lady  Teaz.  Lud,  Sir  Peter,  would  you  have 
me  be  out  of  the  fashion? 

Sir    Pet.     The    fashion    indeed! — what    had 


404 


THE  SCHOOL  FOR  SCANDAL 


ACT  II,  So.  II. 


you  to  do  with  the  fashion  before  you  mar- 
ried me? 

Lady  Teas.  For  my  part,  I  should  think 
you  would  like  to  have  your  wife  thought  a 
woman  of  taste. 

Sir  Pet.  Aye,  there  again — taste!  Zounds, 
madam,  you  had  no  taste  when  you  married 
me. 

Lady  Teas.  That's  very  true  indeed,  Sir 
Peter !  after  having  married  you  I  should 
never  pretend  to  taste  again,  I  allow. 

Sir  Pet.  So,  so,  then,  madam,  if  these  are 
your  sentiments,  pray  how  came  I  to  be 
honored  with  your  hand? 

Lady  Teas.     Shall  I  tell  you  the  truth? 

Sir  Pet.     If  it's  not  too  great  a  favor. 

Lady  Teas.  Why,  the  fact  is,  I  was  tired 
of  all  those  agreeable  recreations  which  you 
have  so  good-naturedly  described,  and  having 
a  spirit  to  spend  and  enjoy  a  fortune,  I  de- 
termined to  marry  the  first  rich  man  that 
would  have  me. 

Sir  Pet.  A  very  honest  confession — truly — 
but  pray,  madam,  was  there  no  one  else  you 
might  have  tried  to  ensnare  but  me? 

Lady  Teas.  O  lud— I  drew  my  net  at  sev- 
eral but  you  were  the  only  one  I  could  catch. 

Sir  Pet.     This  is  plain  dealing  indeed. 

Lady  Teas.  But  now,  Sir  Peter,  if  we  have 
finished  our  daily  jangle,  I  presume  I  may 
go  to  my  engagement  at  Lady  Sneerwell's? 

Sir  Pet.  Aye— there's  another  precious  cir- 
cumstance— a  charming  set  of  acquaintance — 
you  have  made  there! 

Lady  Teas.  Nay,  Sir  Peter,  they  are  peo- 
ple of  rank  and  fortune — and  remarkably 
tenacious  of  reputation. 

Sir  Pet.  Yes,  egad,  they  are  tenacious  of 
reputation  with  a  vengeance,  for  they  don't 
choose  anybody  should  have  a  character  but 
themselves!  Such  a  crew!  Ah!  many  a 
wretch  has  rid  on  hurdles  who  has  done  less 
mischief  than  these  utterers  of  forged  tales, 
coiners  of  scandal,  and  clippers  of  reputation. 

Lady  Teas.  What!  would  you  restrain  the 
freedom  of  speech? 

Sir  Pet.  Aye,  they  have  made  you  just  as 
bad  as  any  one  of  the  society. 

Lady  Teas.  Why— I  believe  I  do  bear  a 
part  with  a  tolerable  grace.  But  I  vow  I 
bear  no  malice  against  the  people  I  abuse; 
when  I  say  an  ill-natured  thing,  'tis  out  of 
pure  good  humor — and  I  take  it  for  granted 
they  deal  exactly  in  the  same  manner  with 
me.  But,  Sir  Peter,  you  know  you  promised 
to  come  to  Lady  Sneerwell's  too. 

Sir  Pet.  Well,  well,  I'll  call  in,  just  to 
look  after  my  own  character. 

Lady  Teas.  Then,  indeed,  you  must  make 
haste  after  me,  or  you'll  be  too  late;  so  good 
bye  to  ye. 

Sir  Pet.  So — I  have  gained  much  by  my 
intended  expostulation.  Yet  with  what  a 
charming  air  she  contradicts  every  thing  I 


say— and  how  pleasingly  she  shows  her  con- 
tempt of  my  authority.  Well,  tho'  I  can't 
make  her  love  me,  there  is  certainly  a  great 
satisfaction  in  quarrelling  with  her;  and  I 
think  she  never  appears  to  such  advantage 
as  when  she  is  doing  everything  in  her  power 


to  plague  me. 


[Exit. 


it. 


SCENE  II 
At   LADY    SNEERWELL'S. 

LADY  SNEERWELL,  MRS.  CANDOUR,  CRABTREE, 
SIR  BENJAMIN  BACKBITE,  and  SURFACE. 

Lady  Sneer.     Nay,  positively,  we  will  hear 

Surf.     Yes,  yes,  the  epigram,  by  all  means. 

Sir  Ben.  O  plague  on't,  uncle,  'tis  mere 
nonsense. 

Crab.  No,  no;  'fore  gad,  very  clever  for 
an  extempore ! 

Sir  Ben.  But,  ladies,  you  should  be  ac- 
quainted with  the  circumstances.  You  must 
know  that  one  day  last  week  as  Lady  Betty 
Curricle  was  taking  the  dust  in  High  Park, 
in  a  sort  of  duodecimo  phaeton,  she  desired 
me  to  write  some  verses  on  her  ponies;  upon 
which  I  took  out  my  pocketbook,  and  in  one 
moment  produced— the  following: — 

'Sure  never  were  seen  two  such  beautiful 
ponies; 

Other  horses  are  clowns — and  these  maca- 
ronies, 

Nay  to  give  'em  this  title,  I'm  sure  isn't 
wrong, 

Their  legs  are  so  slim — and  their  tails  are 
so  long. 

Crab.  There,  ladies — done  in  the  smack  of 
a  whip  and  on  horseback  too. 

Surf.  A  very  Phoebus,  mounted — indeed, 
Sir  Benjamin. 

Sir  Ben.     Oh,  dear  sir— trifles— trifles. 

Enter  LADY  TEAZLE   and  MARIA. 

Mrs.   Can.     1   must  have  a  copy. 

Lady  Sneer.  Lady  Teazle,  I  hope  we  shall 
see  Sir  Peter? 

Lady  Teas.  I  believe  he'll  wait  on  your 
Ladyship  presently. 

Lady  Sneer.  Maria,  my  love,  you  look 
grave.  Come,  you  shall  sit  down  to  piquet 
with  Mr.  Surface. 

Mar.  I  take  very  little  pleasure  in  cards; 
however,  I'll  do  as  you  please. 

Lady  Teas.  1  am  surprised  Mr.  Surface 
should  sit  down  with  her;  I  thought  he 
would  have  embraced  this  opportunity  of 
speaking  to  me  before  Sir  Peter  came. 

[Aside. 

Mrs.  Can.  Now,  I'll  die  but  you  are  so 
scandalous  I'll  forswear  your  society. 

Lady  Tecs.  What's  the  matter,  Mrs.  Can- 
dour? 


405 


ACT  II,  Sc.  II. 


THE  SCHOOL  FOR  SCANDAL 


Mrs.  Can.  They'll  not  allow  our  friend 
Miss  Vermillion  to  be  handsome. 

Lady  Sneer.  Oh,  surely  she  is  a  pretty 
woman.  .  .  . 

Crab.  I  am  very  glad  you  think  so, 
ma'am. 

Mrs.  Can.  She  has  a  charming  fresh 
color. 

Crab.     Yes,   when   it  is  fresh   put  on. 

Lady  Teas.  O  fie!  I'll  swear  her  color  is 
natural — I  have  seen  it  come  and  go. 

Crab.  I  dare  swear  you  have,  ma'am:  it 
goes  of  a  night,  and  comes  again  in  the 
morning. 

Sir  Ben.  True,  uncle,  it  not  only  comes 
and  goes  but  what's  more,  egad,  her  maid 
can  fetch  and  carry  it. 

Mrs.  Can.  Ha!  ha!  ha!  how  I  hate  to  hear 
you  talk  so!  But  surely,  now,  her  sister 
is  or  was  very  handsome. 

Crab.  Who?  Mrs.  Stucco?  O  lud!  she's 
six-and-fifty  if  she's  an  hour! 

Mrs.  Can.  Now  positively  you  wrong  her; 
fifty-two,  or  fifty-three  is  the  utmost — and  I 
don't  think  she  looks  more. 

Sir  Ben.  Ah!  there's  no  judging  by  her 
looks,  unless  one  was  to  see  her  face. 

Lady  Sneer.  Well — well — if  she  does  take 
some  pains  to  repair  the  ravages  of  time, 
you  must  allow  she  effects  it  with  great  in- 
genuity— and  surely  that's  better  than  the 
careless  manner  in  which  the  widow  Ocre 
chalks  her  wrinkles. 

Sir  Ben.  Nay,  now,  you  are  severe  upon 
the  widow;  come,  come,  it  isn't  that  she 
paints  so  ill— but  when  she  has  finished  her 
face  she  joins  it  on  so  badly  to  her  neck, 
that  she  looks  like  a  mended  statue,  in 
which  the  connoisseur  sees  at  once  that 
the  head's  modern  though  the  trunk's  an- 
tique. 

Crab.     Ha!  ha!  ha!  well  said,  nephew! 

Mrs.  Can.  Ha!  ha!  ha!  Well,  you  make 
me  laugh  but  I  vow  I  hate  you  for  it.  What 
do  you  think  of  Miss  Simper? 

Sir  Ben.  Why,  she  has  very  pretty 
teeth. 

Lady  Teaz.  Yes,  and  on  that  account, 
when  she  is  neither  speaking  nor  laughing 
(which  very  seldom  happens),  she  never  ab- 
solutely shuts  her  mouth,  but  leaves  it  al- 
ways on  a-jar,  as  it  were. 

Mrs.  Can.     How  can  you  be  so  ill-natured? 

Lady  Teaz.  Nay,  I  allow  even  that's  better 
than  the  pains  Mrs.  Prim  takes  to  conceal 
her  losses  in  front — she  draws  her  mouth 
till  it  resembles  the  aperture  of  a  poor's-box, 
and  all  her  words  appear  to  slide  out  edge- 
wise. 

Lady  Sneer.  Very  well,  Lady  Teazle,  I  see 
you  can  be  a  little  severe. 

Lady  Teaz.  In  defence  of  a  friend  it  is  but 
justice,  but  here  comes  Sir  Peter  to  spoil 
our  pleasantry. 


Enter  SIR   PETER. 

Sir  Pet.  Ladies,  your  obedient — mercy  on 
me,  here  is  the  whole  set!  a  character's  dead 
at  every  word,  I  suppose. 

Mrs.  Can.  1  am  rejoiced  you  are  come, 
Sir  Peter;  they  have  been  so  censorious  and 
Lady  Teazle  as  bad  as  any  one. 

Sir  Pet.  That  must  be  very  distressing  to 
you,  Mrs.  Candour,  I  dare  swear. 

Mrs.  Can.  O,  they  will  allow  good  qualities 
to  nobody — not  even  good  nature  to  our 
friend,  Mrs.  Pursy. 

Lady  Teaz.  What,  the  fat  dowager  who 
was  at  Mrs.  Quadrille's  last  night? 

Lady  Sneer.  Nay,  her  bulk  is  her  mis- 
fortune and  when  she  takes  such  pains  to 
get  rid  of  it,  you  ought  not  to  reflect  on 
her. 

Mrs.  Can.     Tis  very  true,  indeed. 

Lady  Teaz.  Yes,  I  know  she  almost  lives 
on  acids  and  small  whey— laces  herself  by 
pulleys  and  often  in  the  hottest  noon  of 
summer  you  may  see  her  on  a  little  squat 
pony,  with  her  hair  plaited  up  behind  like 
a  drummer's,  and  puffing  round  the  Ring  on 
a  full  trot. 

Mrs.  Can.  I  thank  you,  Lady  Teazle,  for 
defending  her. 

Sir  Pet.     Yes,   a  good   defence,   truly! 

Mrs.  Can.  But  for  Sir  Benjamin,  he  is  as 
censorious  as  Miss  Sallow. 

Crab.  Yes,  and  she  is  a  curious  being  to 
pretend  to  be  censorious — an  awkward  gawky, 
without  any  one  good  point  under  Heaven! 

Lady  Sneer.  Positively,  you  shall  not  be 
so  very  severe.  Miss  Sallow  is  a  relation  of 
mine  by  marriage,  and,  as  for  her  person 
great  allowance  is  to  be  made;  for,  let  me 
tell  you,  a  woman  labors  under  many  dis- 
advantages who  tries  to  pass  for  a  girl  at 
six-and-thirty. 

Mrs.  Can.  Though,  surely  she  is  hand- 
some still— and  for  the  weakness  in  her 
eyes,  considering  how  much  she  reads  by 
candle-light,  it  is  not  to  be  wondered  at. 

Lady  Sneer.  True,  and  then  as  to  her 
manner— upon  my  word,  I  think  it  is  par- 
ticularly graceful  considering  she  never  had 
the  least  education:  for  you  know  her  mother 
was  a  Welch  milliner,  and  her  father  a  sugar- 
baker  at  Bristow. 

Sir  Ben.  Ah!  You  are  both  of  you  too 
good-natured ! 

Sir  Pet.  Yes,  damned  good-natured!  Her 
own  relation !  mercy  on  me !  [Aside. 

Mrs.  Can.  For  my  part  I  own  I  cannot 
bear  to  hear  a  friend  ill-spoken  of. 


Sir  Pet.     No,  to  be   sure! 
Sir    Ben.     Ah,    you    are    of 


a    moral    turn, 


Mrs.  Candour,  and  can  sit  for  an  hour  to  hear 
Lady  Stucco  talk  santiments. 

Lady   Sneer.     Nay,    I    vow   Lady    Stucco   is 
very  well  with  the  dessert  after  dinner,  for 


406 


THE  SCHOOL  FOR  SCANDAL 


ACT  II,  Sc.  II. 


she's  just  like  the  Spanish  fruit  one  cracks 
for  mottoes, — made  up  of  paint  and  proverb. 

Mrs.  Can.  Well,  I  never  will  join  in  ridi- 
culing a  friend — and  so  I  constantly  tell  my 
cousin  Ogle — and  you  all  know  what  pre- 
tensions she  has  to  be  critical  in  beauty. 

Lady  Teas.  O,  to  be  sure,  she  has  her- 
self the  oddest  countenance  that  ever  was 
seen — 'tis  a  collection  of  features  from  all 
the  different  countries  of  the  globe. 

Sir  Ben.  So  she  has  indeed — an  Irish 
front 

Crab.     Caledonian  locks 

Sir  Ben.     Dutch  nose 

Crab.     Austrian   lips 

Sir  Ben.     Complexion  of  a  Spaniard 

Crab.     And   teeth    a   la   Chinoise 

Sir  Ben.  In  short,  her  face  resembles  a 
table  d'hote  at  Spa — where  no  two  guests 
are  of  a  nation 

Crab.  Or  a  congress  at  the  close  of  a 
general  war,  wherein  all  the  members  even 
to  her  eyes  appear  to  have  a  different  in- 
terest, and  her  nose  and  chin  are  the  only 
parties  likely  to  join  issue. 

Mrs.   Can.     Ha!  ha!  ha! 

Sir  Pet.     Mercy  on  my  life!  a  person  they 


dine  with  twice  a  week ! 


[Aside. 


Lady  Sneer.  Go — go — you  are  a  couple  of 
provoking  toads. 

Mrs.  Can.  Nay,  but  I  vow  you  shall  not 
carry  the  laugh  off  so — for  give  me  leave  to 
say,  that  Mrs.  Ogle 

Sir  Pet.  Madam,  madam — I  beg  your  par- 
don— there's  no  stopping  these  good  gentle- 
men's tongues — but  when  I  tell  you,  Mrs. 
Candour,  that  the  lady  they  are  abusing  is  a 
particular  friend  of  mine,  I  hope  you'll  not 


take  her  part. 

Lady    Sneer. 


Ha!    ha!    ha!    well    said,    Sir 


Peter;  but  you  are  a  cruel  creature — too 
phlegmatic  yourself  for  a  jest  and  too  peevish 
to  allow  wit  in  others. 

Sir  Pet.  Ah,  madam,  true  wit  is  more 
nearly  allied  to  good  nature  than  your  lady- 
ship is  aware  of. 

Lady  Sneer.  True,  Sir  Peter— I  believe 
they  are  so  near  akin  that  they  can  never 
be  united. 

Sir  Ben.  O  rather,  madam,  suppose  them 
man  and  wife  because  one  seldom  sees  them 
together. 

Lady  Teas.  But  Sir  Peter  is  such  an 
enemy  to  scandal  I  believe  he  would  have  it 
put  down  by  Parliament. 

Sir  Pet.  'Fore  heaven!  madam,  if  they 
were  to  consider  the  sporting  with  reputation 
of  as  much  importance  as  poaching  on 
manors,  and  pass  an  act  for  the  preserva- 
tion of  fame,  there  are  many  would  thank 
them  for  the  bill. 

Lady  Sneer.  O  Lud!  Sir  Peter,  would  you 
deprive  us  of  our  privileges — 

Sir   Pet.     Aye,   madam,   and    then    no   per- 


son should  be  permitted  to  kill  characters 
or  run  down  reputations  but  qualified  old 
maids  and  disappointed  widows. 

Lady  Sneer.     Go,  you  monster — 

Mrs.  Can.  But  sure  you  would  not  be 
quite  so  severe  on  those  who  only  report 
what  they  hear? 

Sir  Pet.  Yes,  madam,  I  would  have  Law 
Merchant  for  that  too — and  in  all  cases  of 
slander  currency,  whenever  the  drawer  of 
the  lie  was  not  to  be  found,  the  injured  party 
should  have  a  right  to  come  on  any  of  the 
indorsers. 

Crab.  Well,  for  my  part,  I  believe  there 
never  was  a  scandalous  tale  without  some 
foundation. 

Lady  Sneer.  Come,  ladies,  shall  we  sit 
down  to  cards  in  the  next  room? 

Enter  SERVANT,   whispers   SIR    PETER. 

Sir  Pet.  I'll  be  with  them  directly.— [Exit 
SERVANT.]  I'll  get  away  unperceived. 

Lady  Sneer.  Sir  Peter,  you  are  not  leav- 
ing us? 

Sir  Pet.  Your  ladyship  must  excuse  me — 
I'm  called  away  by  particular  business — but 


I   leave  my   character   behind   me. 


[Exit. 


Sir  Ben.  Well,  certainly,  Lady  Teazle,  that 
lord  of  yours  is  a  strange  being;  I  could  tell 
you  some  stories  of  him  would  make  you 
laugh  heartily  if  he  weren't  your  husband. 

•Lady  Teas.  O,  pray  don't  mind  that — come, 
do  let's  hear  'em.  [join  the  rest  of  the  com- 
pany going  into  the  next  room.}  j 

Surf.  Maria,  I  see  you  have  no  satis- 
faction in  this  society. 

Mar.  How  is  it  possible  I  should?  If  to 
raise  malicious  smiles  at  the  infirmities  or 
misfortunes  of  those  who  have  never  injured 
us  be  the  province  of  wit  or  humor,  Heaven 
grant  me  a  double  portion  of  dullness. 

Surf.  Yet  they  appear  more  ill-natured 
than  they  are — they  have  no  malice  at  heart. 

Mar.  Then  is  their  conduct  still  more 
contemptible;  for  in  my  opinion,  nothing 
could  excuse  the  intemperance  of  their 
tongues  but  a  natural  and  ungovernable 
bitterness  of  mind. 

Surf.  Undoubtedly,  madam— and  it  has  al- 
ways been  a  sentiment  of  mine — that  to 
propagate  a  malicious  truth  wantonly  is 
more  despicable  than  to  falsify  from  revenge; 
but  can  you,  Maria,  feel  thus  for  others  and 
be  unkind  to  me  alone— nay,  is  hope  to  be 
denied  the  tenderest  passion? 

Mar.  Why  will  you  distress  me  by  re- 
newing this  subject? 

Surf.  Ah!  Maria!  you  would  not  treat  me 
thus  and  oppose  your  guardian's,  Sir  Peter's, 
wishes— but  that  I  see  that  my  profligate 
brother  is  still  a  favored  rival. 

Mar.  Ungenerously  urged;  but  whatever 
my  sentiments  of  that  unfortunate  young 


407 


ACT  II,  Sc.  III. 


THE  SCHOOL  FOR  SCANDAL 


man  are,  be  assured  I  shall  not  feel  more 
bound  to  give  him  up  because  his  distresses 
have  sunk  him  so  low  as  to  deprive  him  of 
the  regard  even  of  a  brother. 

Surf.  Nay  but,  Maria,  do  not  leave  me 
with  a  frown — by  all  that's  honest,  I  swear 

Gad's  life,  here's  Lady  Teazle — you  must 

not — no,  you  shall — for  though  I  have  the 
greatest  regard  for  Lady  Teazle 

Mar.     Lady   Teazle ! 

Surf.     Yet   were    Sir   Peter   to   suspect 

Enter   LADY   TEAZLE,   and   comes  forward. 

Lady  Teas.  What's  this,  pray— do  you  take 
her  for  me!— Child,  you  are  wanted  in  the 
next  room. — What's  all  this,  pray — 

Surf.  O,  the  most  unlucky  circumstance 
in  nature.  Maria  has  somehow  suspected 
the  tender  concern  I  have  for  your  happiness, 
and  threatened  to  acquaint  Sir  Peter  with 
her  suspicions — and  I  was  just  endeavoring 
to  reason  with  her  when  you  came. 

Lady  Teas.  Indeed  but  you  seemed  to 
adopt — a  very  tender  mode  of  reasoning.  Do 
you  usually  argue  on  your  knees? 

Surf.  O,  she's  a  child — and  I  thought  a 

little  bombast but,  Lady  Teazle,  when  are 

you  to  give  me  your  judgment  on  my  library 
as  you  promised? 

Lady  Teas.  No— no,  I  begin  to  think  it 
would  be  imprudent — and  you  know  I  admit 
you  as  a  lover  no  farther  than  fashion  re- 
quires. 

Surf.  True — a  mere  Platonic  Cicisbeo, 
what  every  London  wife  is  entitled  to. 

Lady  Teas.  Certainly  one  must  not  be  out 
of  the  fashion — however,  I  have  so  much  of 
my  country  prejudices  left — that — though 
Sir  Peter's  ill  humor  may  vex  me  ever  so, 
it  never  shall  provoke  me  to 

Surf.  The  only  revenge  in  your  power — 
well,  I  applaud  your  moderation. 

Lady  Teas.  Go — you  are  an  insinuating 
hypocrite — but  we  shall  be  missed— let  us 
join  the  company. 

Surf.  True,  but  we  had  best  not  return 
together. 

Lady  Teas.  Well,  don't  stay — for  Maria 
shan't  come  to  hear  any  more  of  your  rea- 
soning, I  promise  you.  [Exit. 

Surf.  A  curious  dilemma,  truly,  my 
politics  have  run  me  into.  I  wanted  at  first 
only  to  ingratiate  myself  with  Lady  Teazle 
that  she  might  not  be  my  enemy  with  Maria 
— and  I  have,  I  don't  know  how,  become  her 
serious  lover,  so  that  I  stand  a  chance  of 
committing  a  crime  I  never  meditated — and 
probably  of  losing  Maria  by  the  pursuit!— 
Sincerely  I  begin  to  wish  I  had  never  made 
such  a  point  of  gaining  so  very  good  a  char- 
acter, for  it  has  led  me  into  so  many  curst 
rogueries  that  I  doubt  I  shall  be  exposed 
at  last.  {.Exit. 


SCENE  III 

At   SIR   PETER'S. 

ROWLEY  and  SIR  OLIVER. 

Sir  Oliv.  Ha !  ha !  ha !  and  so  my  old  friend 
is  married,  hey?— a  young  wife  out  of  the 
country!— ha!  ha!  that  he  should  have  stood 
bluff  to  old  bachelor  so  long  and  sink  into 
a  husband  at  last! 

Row.  But  you  must  not  rally  him  on  the 
subject,  Sir  Oliver — 'tis  a  tender  point,  I 
assure  you,  though  he  has  been  married 
only  seven  months. 

Sir  Oliv.  Ah,  then  he  has  been  just  half 
a  year  on  the  stool  of  repentance— poor  Peter ! 
But  you  say  he  has  entirely  given  up  Charles 
—never  sees  him,  hey? 

Row.  His  prejudice  against  him  is  as- 
tonishing, and  I  am  sure,  greatly  increased 
by  a  jealousy  of  him  with  Lady  Teazle — 
which  he  has  been  industriously  led  into  by  a 
scandalous  society  in  the  neighborhood  who 
have  contributed  not  a  little  to  Charles's  ill 
name.  Whereas  the  truth  is,  I  believe,  if  the 
lady  is  partial  to  either  of  them  his  brother 
is  the  favorite. 

Sir  Oliv.  Aye — I  know— there  are  a  set 
of  malicious,  prating,  prudent  gossips  both 
male  and  female,  who  murder  characters  to 
kill  time,  and  will  rob  a  young  fellow  of 
his  good  name  before  he  has  years  to  know 
the  value  of  it  ...  but  I  am  not  to  be 
prejudiced  against  my  nephew  by  such,  I 
promise  you!  No!  no,  if  Charles  has  done 
nothing  false  or  mean,  I  shall  compound 
for  his  extravagance. 

Row.  Then,  my  life  on't,  you  will  reclaim 
him.  Ah,  sir,  it  gives  me  new  vigor  to 
find  that  your  heart  is  not  turned  against 
him — and  that  the  son  of  my  good  old  master 
has  one  friend,  however,  left. 

Sir  Oliv.  What!  shall  I  forget,  Master 
Rowley — when  I  was  at  his  house  myself— 
egad,  my  brother  and  I  were  neither  of  us 
very  prudent  youths— and  yet  I  believe  you 
have  not  seen  many  better  men  than  your 
old  master  was. 

Row.  'Tis  this  reflection  gives  me  assur- 
ance that  Charles  may  yet  be  a  credit  to  his 
family — but  here  comes  Sir  Peter 

Sir  Olii1.  Egad,  so  he  does — mercy  on  me 
—he's  greatly  altered — and  seems  to  have  a 
settled  married  look— one  may  read  husband 
in  his  face  at  this  distance. 

Enter  SIR  PETER. 

Sir  Pet.  Ha!  Sir  Oliver— my  old  friend- 
welcome  to  England — a  thousand  times! 

Sir  Oliv.  Thank  you — thank  you — Sir 
Peter — and  efaith  I  am  as  glad  to  find  you 
well,  believe  me — 


408 


THE  SCHOOL  FOR  SCANDAL 


ACT  III,  Sc.  I. 


Sir  Pet.  Ah!  'tis  a  long  time  since  we  met 
—sixteen  year,  I  doubt,  Sir  Oliver— and  many 
a  cross  accident  in  the  time — 

Sir  Oliv.  Aye,  I  have  had  my  share — but, 
what!  I  find  you  are  married — hey,  my  old 
boy — well — well  it  can't  be  helped — and  so  I 
wish  you  joy  with  all  my  heart. 

Sir  Pet.  Thank  you — thanks,  Sir  Oliver. — 
Yes,  I  have  entered  into  the  happy  state,  but 
we'll  not  talk  of  that  now. 

Sir  Oliv.  True,  true,  Sir  Peter,  old  friends 
shouldn't  begin  on  grievances  at  first  meet- 
ing. No,  no— 

Row.     Take  care,  pray,  sir 

Sir  Olh'.  Well— so  one  of  my  nephews,  I 
find,  is  a  wild  rogue — hey? 

Sir  Pet.  Wild !— oh !  my  old  friend— I  grieve 
for  your  disappointment  there.  He's  a  lost 
young  man  indeed;  however  his  brother  will 
make  you  amends;  Joseph  is  indeed  what  a 
youth  should  be — everybody  in  the  world 
speaks  well  of  him. 

Sir  Oliv.  I  am  sorry  to  hear  it— he  has 
too  good  a  character  to  be  an  honest  fellow. 
Everybody  speaks  well  of  him!  Psha!  then 
he  has  bowed  as  low  to  knaves  and  fools  as 
to  the  honest  dignity  of  virtue. 

Sir  Pet.  What!  Sir  Oliver,  do  you  blame 
him  for  not  making  enemies? 

Sir  Oliv.  Yes— if  he  has  merit  enough  to 
deserve  them. 

Sir  Pet.  Well — well — you'll  be  convinced 
when  you  know  him — 'tis  edification  to  hear 
him  converse— he  professes  the  noblest  senti- 
ments. 

Sir  Oliv.  Ah,  plague  on  his  sentiments- 
it  he  salutes  me  with  a  scrap  sentence  of 
morality  in  his  mouth,  I  shall  be  sick  di- 
rectly— but,  however,  don't  mistake  me,  Sir 
Peter,  I  don't  mean  to  defend  Charles's 
errors;  but  before  I  form  my  judgment 
of  either  of  them,  I  intend  to  make  a 
trial  of  their  hearts— and  my  friend  Rowley 
and  I  have  planned  something  for  the  pur- 
pose. 

Row.  And  Sir  Peter  shall  own  he  has  been 
for  once  mistaken. 

Sir  Pet.     My  life  on  Joseph's   honor 

Sir  Oliv.  Well,  come,  give  us  a  bottle  of 
good  wine,  and  we'll  drink  the  lads'  healths 
and  tell  you  our  scheme. 

Sir  Pet.     Allans,  then 

Sir  Oliv.  But  don't,  Sir  Peter,  be  so  severe 
against  your  old  friend's  son. 

Sir  Pet.  'Tis  his  vices  and  follies  have 
made  me  his  enemy. 

Row.  Come — come — Sir  Peter,  consider  how 
early  he  was  left  to  his  own  guidance. 

Sir  Oliv.  Odds,  my  life— I  am  not  sorry 
that  he  has  run  out  of  the  course  a  little; 
for  my  part,  I  hate  to  see  dry  prudence 
clinging  to  the  green  juices  of  youth — 'tis 
like  ivy  round  a  sapling  and  spoils  the 
growth  of  the  tree. 


ACT   III 

SCENE  I 

At  SIR   PETER'S. 
SIR   PETER,    SIR    OLIVER,  and   ROWLEY. 

Sir  Pet.  Well,  then,  we  will  see  the  fellows 
first  and  have  our  wine  afterwards.  But  how 
is  this,  Master  Rowley?  I  don't  see  the  jet 
of  your  scheme. 

Row.  Why,  sir,  this  Mr.  Stanley  whom  I 
was  speaking  of  is  nearly  related  to  them 
by  their  mother.  He  was  once  a  merchant 
in  Dublin,  but  has  been  ruined  by  a  series 
of  undeserved  misfortunes,  and  now  lately 
coming  over  to  solicit  the  assistance  of  his 
friends  here,  has  been  flung  into  prison  by 
some  of  his  creditors,  where  he  is  now  with 
two  helpless  boys. 

Sir  Oliv.  Aye,  and  a  worthy  fellow,  too, 
I  remember  him.  But  what  is  this  to  lead 
to? 

Row.  You  shall  hear.  He  has  applied  by 
letter  both  to  Mr.  Surface  and  Charles;  from 
the  former  he  has  received  nothing  but 
evasive  promises  of  future  service,  while 
Charles  has  done  all  that  his  extravagance 
has  left  him  power  to  do,  and  he  is  at  this 
time  endeavoring  to  raise  a  sum  of  money, 
part  of  which,  in  the  midst  of  his  own  dis- 
tresses, I  know  he  intends  for  the  service  of 
poor  Stanley. 

Sir  Oliv.     Ah!  he  is  my  brother's  son. 

Sir  Pet.  Well,  but  how  is  Sir  Oliver  per- 
sonally to 

Row.  Why,  sir,  I  will  inform  Charles  and 
his  brother  that  Stanley  has  obtained  per- 
mission to  apply  in  person  to  his  friends, 
and  as  they  have  neither  of  them  ever  seen 
him,  let  Sir  Oliver  assume  his  character,  and 
he  will  have  a  fair  opportunity  of  judging 
at  least  of  the  benevolence  of  their  dis- 
positions. 

Sir  Pet.  Pshaw!  this  will  prove  nothing. 
I  make  no  doubt  Charles  is  coxcomb  and 
thoughtless  enough  to  give  money  to  poor 
relations  if  he  had  it. 

Sir  Oliv.  Then  he  shall  never  want  it. 
I  have  brought  a  few  rupees  home  with  me, 
Sir  Peter,  and  I  only  want  to  be  sure  of 
bestowing  them  rightly. 

Row.  Then,  sir,  believe  me  you  will  find 
in  the  youngest  brother  one  who  in  the  midst 
of  folly  and  dissipation  has  still,  as  our  im- 
mortal bard  expresses  it, — 

"  a  tear  for  pity  and  a  hand  open  as  the  day 
for  melting  charity." 

Sir  Pet.  Pish!  What  signifies  his  having 
an  open  hand  or  purse  either  when  he  has 
nothing  left  to  give!  But  if  you  talk  of 
humane  sentiments,  Joseph  is  the  man.  Well, 
well,  make  the  trial,  if  you  please.  But 


400 


ACT  III,  Sc.  I. 


THE  SCHOOL  FOR  SCANDAL 


where  is  the  fellow  whom  you  brought  for 
Sir  Oliver  to  examine,  relative  to  Charles's 
affairs  ? 

Row.  Below,  waiting  his  commands,  and 
no  one  can  give  him  better  intelligence. 
This,  Sir  Oliver,  is  a  friendly  Jew,  who  to 
do  him  justice,  has  done  everything  in  his 
power  to  bring  your  nephew  to  a  proper 
sense  of  his  extravagance. 

Sir   Pet.     Pray,    let    us    have    him    in. 

Row.  Desire  Mr.  Moses  to  walk  upstairs. 
[Calls  to  SERVANT. 

Sir  Pet.  But,  pray,  why  should  you  sup- 
pose he  will  speak  the  truth? 

Row.  Oh,  I  have  convinced  him  that  he 
has  no  chance  of  recovering  certain  sums  ad- 
vanced to  Charles  but  through  the  bounty  of 
Sir  Oliver,  who  he  knows  is  arrived;  so 
that  you  may  depend  on  his  fidelity  to  his 
interest.  I  have  also  another  evidence  in 
my  power,  one  Snake,  whom  I  shall  shortly 
produce  to  remove  some  of  your  prejudices, 
Sir  Peter,  relative  to  Charles  and  Lady 
Teazle. 

Sir  Pet.  I  have  heard  too  much  on  that 
subject. 

Row.     Here  comes  the  honest  Israelite. 

Enter  MOSES. 

—This  is  Sir  Oliver. 

Sir  Oliv.  Sir— I  understand  you  have 
lately  had  great  dealings  with  my  nephew 
Charles. 

Mas.  Yes,  Sir  Oliver,  I  have  done  all  I 
could  for  him,  but  he  was  ruined  before  he 
came  to  me  for  assistance. 

Sir  Oliv.  That  was  unlucky  truly — for  you 
have  had  no  opportunity  of  showing  your 
talents. 

Mas.  None  at  all— I  hadn't  the  pleasure 
of  knowing  his  distresses  till  he  was  some 
thousands  worse  than  nothing,  till  it  was  im- 
possible to  add  to  them. 

Sir  Oliv.  Unfortunate  indeed!  but  I  sup- 
pose you  have  done  all  in  your  power  for  him, 
honest  Moses  ? 

Mas.  Yes,  he  knows  that.  This  very 
evening  I  was  to  have  brought  him  a  gen- 
tleman from  the  city  who  does  not  know 
him  and  will  I  believe  advance  some  money. 

Sir  Pet.  What!  one  Charles  has  never  had 
money  from  before? 

Mas.  Yes — Mr.  Premium,  of  Crutched 
Friars. 

Sir  Pet.  Egad,  Sir  Oliver,  a  thought  strikes 
me! — Charles  you  say  doesn't  know  Mr. 
Premium  ? 

Mas.     Not  at  all. 

Sir  Pet.  Now  then,  Sir  Oliver,  you  may 
have  a  better  opportunity  of  satisfying  your- 
self than  by  an  old  romancing  tale  of  a 
poor  relation— go  with  my  friend  Moses  and 
represent  Mr.  Premium,  and  then  I'll  answer 
for't  you'll  see  your  nephew  in  all  his  glory. 


Sir  Oliv.  Egad,  I  like  this  idea  better  than 
the  other,  and  I  may  visit  Joseph  afterwards 
as  old  Stanley. 

Sir  Pet.     True,  so   you  may. 

Row.  Well,  this  is  taking  Charles  rather 
at  a  disadvantage,  to  be  sure — however, 
Moses— you  understand  Sir  Peter  and  will 
be  faithful 

Mos.  You  may  depend  upon  me — and  this 
is  near  the  time  I  was  to  have  gone. 

Sir  ()/:;•.  I'll  accompany  you  as  soon  as 

you  please,  Moses but  hold— f  have  forgot 

one  thing — how  the  plague  shall  I  be  able 
to  pass  for  a  Jew? 

Mos.  There's  no  need;  the  principal  is 
Christian. 

Sir  Oliv.  Is  he?  I'm  very  sorry  to  hear 
it — but  then  again,  an't  I  rather  too  smartly 
dressed  to  look  like  a  money-lender? 

Sir  I'd.  Not  at  all;  'twould  not  be  out  of 
character,  if  you  went  in  your  own  carriage, 
would  it,  Moses ! 

Mos.     Not  in  the  least. 

Sir  Oliv.  Well— but— how  must  I  talk? 
there's  certainly  'some  cant  of  usury  and 
mode  of  treating  that  I  ought  to  know. 

Sir  Pet.  Oh,  there's  not  much  to  learn— 
the  great  point  as  I  take  it  is  to  be  exorbi- 
tant enough  in  your  demands,  hey,  Moses? 

Mos.     Yes  that's  very  great  point. 

Sir  Oliv.  I'll  answer  for't  I'll  not  be  want- 
ing in  that — I'll  ask  him  eight  or  ten  per 
cent,  on  the  loan — at  least. 

Mos.  You'll  be  found  out  directly;  if  you 
ask  him  no  more  than  that,  you'll  be  dis- 
covered immediately. 

Sir  Oliv.  Hey!  what  the  plague!— how 
much  then? 


Mos. 
stances 


That     depends     upon     the     circum- 
-if  he   appears   not   very   anxious    for 


the  supply,  you  should  require  only  forty 
or  fifty  per  cent. — but  if  you  find  him  in 
great  distress,  and  want  the  monies  very 
bad,  you  may  ask  double. 

Sir  Pet.  A  good,  honest  trade  you're  learn- 
ing, Sir  Oliver — 

Sir  Oliv.  Truly,  I  think  so — and  not  un- 
profitable— 

Mos.  Then,  you  know,  you  haven't  the 
monies  yourself,  but  are  forced  to  borrow 
them  for  him  of  a  friend. 

Sir  Oliver.     O,  I  borrow  it  of  a  friend,  do  I  ? 

Mos.  And  your  friend  is  an  unconscioned 
dog — but  you  can't  help  it. 

Sir  Oliv.  My  friend's  an  unconscionable 
dog,  is  he? 

Mos.  Yes — and  he  himself  hasn't  the 
monies  by  him — but  is  forced  to  sell  stock — 
at  a  great  loss — 

Sir  Oliv.  He  is  forced  to  sell  stock,  is  he — 
at  a  great  loss,  is  he  ?  Well,  that's  very  kind 
of  him. 

Sir  Pet.  Efaith,  Sir  Oliver— Mr.  Premium 
I  mean— you'll  soon  be  master  of  the  trade — 


410 


THE  SCHOOL  FOR  SCANDAL 


ACT  III,  Sc.  I. 


but,  Moses  would  have  him  inquire  if  the 
borrower  is  a  minor — 

Mas.     O  yes — 

Sir  Pet.  And  in  that  case  his  conscience 
will  direct  him — 

Mas.  To  have  the  bond  in  another  name 
to  be  sure. 

Sir  Oliv.  Well— well,  I  shall  be  perfect- 
Sir  Pet.  But,  hearkee,  wouldn't  you  have 
him  also  run  out  a  little  against  the  annuity 
bill?  That  would  be  in  character  I  should 
think— 

Mas.     Very   much. 

Row.  And  lament  that  a  young  man  now 
must  be  at  years  of  discretion  before  he  is 
suffered  to  ruin  himself ! 

Mas.     Aye,   great  pity! 

Sir  Pet.  And  abuse  the  public  for  allow- 
ing merit  to  an  act  whose  only  object  is  to 
snatch  misfortune  and  imprudence  from  the 
rapacious  relief  of  usury !  and  give  the  minor 
a  chance  of  inheriting  his  estate  without 
being  undone  by  coming  into  possession. 

Sir  Oliv.  So— so — Moses  shall  give  me 
further  instructions  as  we  go  together. 

Sir  Pet.  You  will  not  have  much  time,  for 
your  nephew  lives  hard  by — 

Sir  Oliv.  Oh,  never  fear:  my  tutor  ap- 
pears so  able  that  tho'  Charles  lived  in  the 
next  street,  it  must  be  my  own  fault  if  I 
am  not  a  complete  rogue  before  I  turn  the 
corner —  [Exeunt  SIR  OLIVER  and  MOSES. 

Sir  Pet.  So,  now  I  think  Sir  Oliver  will 
be  convinced — you  shan't  follow  them,  Row- 
ley. You  are  partial  and  would  have  pre- 
pared Charles  for  t'other  plot. 

Row.     No,  upon  my  word,  Sir  Peter — 

Sir  Pet.  Well,  go  bring  me  this  Snake, 
and  I'll  hear  what  he  has  to  say  presently. 
I  see  Maria,  and  want  to  speak  with  her. 
[Exit  ROWLEY.]  I  should  be  glad  to  be  con- 
vinced my  suspicions  of  Lady  Teazle  and 
Charles  were  unjust;  I  have  never  yet  opened 
my  mind  on  this  subject  to  my  friend  Joseph. 
...  I  am  determined.  I  will  do  it— he  will 
give  me  his  opinion  sincerely. — 

Enter  MARIA. 

So,  child,  has  Mr.  Surface  returned  with  you? 

Mar.     No,    sir,    he    was    engaged. 

Sir  Pet.  Well,  Maria,  do  you  not  reflect, 
the  more  you  converse  with  that  amiable 
young  man,  what  return  his  partiality  for 
you  deserves  ? 

Mar.  Indeed,  Sir  Peter,  your  frequent  im- 
portunity on  this  subject  distresses  me  ex- 
tremely; you  compel  me  to  declare  that  I 
knew  no  man  who  has  ever  paid  me  a  par- 
ticular attention  whom  I  would  not  prefer 
to  Mr.  Surface. 

Sir    Pet.     Soh! 


Here's    perverseness;    no. 


no,  Maria,  'tis  Charles  only  whom  you  would 


prefer— 'tis  evident  his  vices  and  follies  have 
won  your  heart. 


Mar.  This  is  unkind,  sir.  You  know  I 
have  obeyed  you  in  neither  seeing  nor  cor- 
responding with  him — I  have  heard  enough 
to  convince  me  that  he  is  unworthy  my  re- 
gard. Yet  I  cannot  think  it  culpable,  if 
while  my  understanding  severely  condemns 
his  vices,  my  heart  suggests  some  pity  for 
his  distresses. 

Sir  Pet.  Well,  well,  pity  him  as  much  as 
you  please,  but  give  your  heart  and  hand 
to  a  worthier  object. 

Mar.     Never  to  his   brother! 

Sir  Pet.  Go — perverse  and  obstinate!  but 
take  care,  madam,  you  have  never  yet  known 
what  the  authority  of  a  guardian  is — don't 
compel  me  to  inform  you  of  it. 

Mar.  I  can  only  say,  you  shall  not  have 
just  reason.  'Tis  true,  by  my  father'*  will  I 
am  for  a  short  period  bound  to  regard  you 
as  his  substitute,  but  I  must  cease  to  think 
you  so  when  you  would  compel  me  to  be 
miserable.  [Exit. 

Sir  Pet.  Was  ever  man  so  crossed  as  I 
am,  everything  conspiring  to  fret  me?  I 
had  not  been  involved  in  matrimony  a  fort- 
night, before  her  father,  a  hale  and  hearty 
man,  died  on  purpose,  I  believe,  for  the 
pleasure  of  plaguing  me  with  the  care  of  his 
daughter  .  .  .  but  here  comes  my  helpmate! 
She  appears  in  great  good  humor;  how 
happy  I  should  be  if  I  could  teaze  her  into 
loving  me  tho'  but  a  little. 

Enter  LADY  TEAZLE. 

Lady  Teas.  Lud!  Sir  Peter,  I  hope  you 
haven't  been  quarrelling  with  Maria?  it 
isn't  using  me  well  to  be  ill-humored  when 
I  am  not  by ! 

Sir  Pet.  Ah!  Lady  Teazle,  you  might  have 
the  power  to  make  me  good-humored  at  all 
times. 

Lady  Teas.  I  am  sure — I  wish  I  had— for 
I  want  you  to  be  in  a  charming  sweet  tem- 
per at  this  moment — do  be  good-humored 
now — and  let  me  have  two  hundred  pounds, 
will  you? 

Sir  Pet. 
I    to    be    i 


Two  hundred  pounds!  what,  an't 
good    humor    without    paying 


for  it?  But  speak  to  me  thus — and  efaith 
there's  nothing  I  could  refuse  you.  You 
shall  have  it — but  seal  me  a  bond  for  the 
repayment. 

Lady  Teas.  O  no — there — my  note  of  hand 
will  do  as  well. 

Sir  Pet.  And  you  shall  no  longer  re- 
proach me  with  not  giving  you  an  independ- 
ent settlement — I  shall  shortly  surprise  you 
—and  you'll  not  call  me  ungenerous.  But 
shall  we  always  live  thus — hey  ? 

Lady  Teas.  If  you— please — I'm  sure  I 
don't  care  how  soon  we  leave  off  quarrelling 
provided  you'll  own  you  were  tired  first. 

Sir    Pet.     Well— then    let    our    future    con- 


test be  who  shall  be  most  obliging. 
411 


ACT  III,  Sc.  II. 


THE  SCHOOL  FOR  SCANDAL 


Lady  Teas.  I  assure  you,  Sir  Peter,  good 
nature  becomes  you — you  look  now  as  you 
did  before  we  were  married — when  you  used 
to  walk  with  me  under  the  elms,  and  tell 
me  stories  of  what  a  gallant  you  were  in 
your  youth — and  chuck  me  under  the  chin, 
you  would — and  ask  me  if  I  thought  I  could 
love  an  old  fellow  who  would  deny  me  noth- 
ing— didn't  you  ? 


-yes— and   you  were   as  kind 


Sir  Pet.     Yea 
and  attentive 

Lady   Teas.     Aye,  so  I  was— and  would  al- 
ways take  your  part,  when  my  acquaintance 
used    to   abuse   you   and   turn   you   into  ridi- 
cule- 
Sir  Pet.     Indeed! 

Lady  Teas.  Aye — and  when  my  cousin 
Sophy  has  called  you  a  stiff,  peevish,  old 
bachelor  and  laughed  at  me  for  thinking  of 
marrying  one  who  might  be  my  father— I 
have  always  defended  you — and  said  I  didn't 
think  you  so  ugly  by  any  means,  and  that 
you'd  make  a  very  good  sort  of  a  husband — 

Sir  Pet.  And  you  prophesied  right — and  we 
shall  certainly  now  be  the  happiest  couple 

Lady  Teas.     And  never  differ  again. 

Sir  Pet.  No,  never — tho'  at  the  same  time 
indeed — my  dear  Lady  Teazle — you  must 
watch  your  temper  very  narrowly — for  in  all 
our  little  quarrels — my  dear — if  you  recol- 
lect, my  love,  you  always  began  first — 

Lady  Teas.  I  beg  your  pardon — my  dear 
Sir  Peter — indeed — you  always  gave  the  prov- 
ocation. 

Sir  Pet.  Now— see,  my  love,  take  care — 
contradicting  isn't  the  way  to  keep  friends. 

Lady  Teas.  Then  don't  you  begin  it,  my 
love! 

Sir  Pet.  There  now — you  are  going  on — 
you  don't  perceive,  my  life,  that  you  are  just 
doing  the  very  thing,  my  love,  which  you 
know  always  makes  me  angry. 

Lady  Teas.  Nay — you  know  if  you  will  be 
angry  without  any  reason— my  dear 

Sir  Pet.  There  now  you  want  to  quarrel 
again. 

Lady  Teas.  No— I  am  sure  I  don't— but  if 
you  will  be  so  peevish 

Sir  Pet.     There — now  who  begins  first? 

Lady  Teas.  Why,  you,  to  be  sure — I  said 
nothing — but  there's  no  bearing  your  temper. 

Sir  Pet.  No — no — my  dear — the  fault's  in 
your  own  temper. 

Lady  Teas.  Aye,  you  are  just  what  my 
cousin  Sophy  said  you  would  be — 

Sir  Pet.  Your  cousin  Sophy — is  a  forward 
impertinent  gipsey — 

Lady  Teas.  Go,  you  great  bear — how  dare 
you  abuse  my  relations? 

Sir  Pet.  Now  may  all  the  plagues  of  mar- 
riage be  doubled  on  me,  if  ever  I  try  to  be 
friends  with  you  any  more 

Lady    Teas.     So    much    the   better. 

Sir  Pet.     No— no,  madam,   'tis  evident  you 


never  cared  a  pin  for  me— I  was  a  madman 
to  marry  you — 

Lady  Teas.  And  I  am  sure  I  was  a  fool 
to  marry  you — an  old  dangling  bachelor,  who 
was  single  at  fifty— only  because  he  never 
could  meet  with  any  one  who  would  have 
him. 

Sir  Pet.  Aye — aye — madam — but  you  were 
pleased  enough  to  listen  to  me — you  never 
had  such  an  offer  before — 

Lady  Teas.  No— didn't  I  refuse  Sir  Jeremy 
Terrier— who  everybody  said  would  have  been 
a  better  match— for  his  estate  is  just  as 
good  as  yours— and  he  has  broke  his  neck 
since  we  have  been  married! 

Sir  Pet.  I  have  done  with  you,  madam ! 
You  are  an  unfeeling— ungrateful— but  there's 
an  end  of  everything— I  believe  you  capable 
of  anything  that's  bad;  yes,  madam— I  now 
believe  the  reports  relative  to  you  and 
Charles, — madam  —  yes  —  madam  —  you  and 
Charles  are — not  without  grounds 

Lady  Teas.  Take  care,  Sir  Peter— you  had 
better  not  insinuate  any  such  thing!  I'll  not 
be  suspected  without  cause,  I  promise  you 

Sir  Pet.  Very— well— madam— very  well!  a 
separate  maintenance — as  soon  as  you  please. 
Yes,  madam,  or  a  divorce — I'll  make  an  ex- 
ample of  myself  for  the  benefit  of  all  old 
bachelors.  Let  us  separate,  madam. 

Lady  Teas.  Agreed — agreed — and  now — my 
dear  Sir  Peter,  we  are  of  a  mind  again,  we 
may  be  the  happiest  couple — and  never  differ1 
again,  you  know— ha!  ha!— Well,  you  are 
going  to  be  in  a  passion  I  see — and  I  shall 
only  interrupt  you — so,  bye!  bye!  hey— 


young   jockey   tried    and   countered. 


[Exit. 


Sir  Pet.  Plagues  and  tortures!  She  pre- 
tends to  keep  her  temper;  can't  I  make  her 
angry  neither!  O!  I  am  the  miserable  fel- 
low! But  I'll  not  bear  her  presuming  to  keep 
her  temper — No,  she  may  break  my  heart- 


but    she    shan't    keep    her    temper. 


[Exit. 


SCENE  II 

At  CHARLES'S  House. 
Enter    TRIP,    MOSES,    and    SIR    OLIVER. 

Trip.     Here,   Master   Moses — if   you'll   stay 

a    moment— I'll     try    whether    Mr. what's 

the  gentleman's  name? 

Sir      Oliv.     Mr. Moses  —  what     is     my 

name 

Mas.     Mr.  Premium 

Trip.     Premium — very    well. 

[Exit   TRIP — taking   snuff. 

Sir  Oliv.  To  judge  by  the  servants — one 
wouldn't  believe  the  master  was  ruined— but 
what — sure  this  was  my  brother's  house 

Mas.  Yes,  sir,  Mr.  Charles  bought  it  of 
Mr.  Joseph  with  the  furniture,  pictures,  &c. — 
just  as  the  old  gentleman  left  it — Sir  Peter 


412 


THE  SCHOOL  FOR  SCANDAL 


ACT  III,  Sc.  III. 


thought  it  a  great  piece  of  extravagance   in 
him. 

Sir  Oliv.  In  my  mind  the  other's  economy 
in  selling  it  to  him  was  more  reprehensible 
by  half. 

Enter  TRIP. 

Trip.  My  master,  Gentlemen,  says  you 
must  wait,  he  has  company,  and  can't  speak 
with  you  yet. 

Sir  Oliz'.  If  he  knew  who  it  was  wanted 
to  see  him,  perhaps  he  wouldn't  have  sent 
such  a  message. 

Trip.  Yes — yes — sir — he  knows  you  are 
here — I  didn't  forget  little  Premium — no — 
no 

Sir  Oliv.  Very  well — and  pray,  sir,  what 
may  be  your  name? 

Trip.  Trip,  sir — my  name  is  Trip,  at  your 
service. 

Sir  Oliv.  Well,  then,  Mr.  Trip— I  presume 
your  master  is  seldom  without  company 

Trip.  Very  seldom,  sir — the  world  says 
ill-natured  things  of  him  but  'tis  all  malice — 
no  man  was  ever  better  beloved;  sir,  he  sel- 
dom sits  down  to  dinner  without  a  dozen 
particular  friends 

Sir  Oliv.  He's  very  happy  indeed — you 
have  a  pleasant  sort  of  place  here,  I  guess  ? 

Trip.  Why,  yes — here  are  three  or  four 
of  us  pass  our  time  agreeably  enough — but 
then  our  wages  are  sometimes  a  little  in 
arrear — and  not  very  great  either — but  fifty 
pounds  a  year  and  find  our  own  bags  and 
bouquets 

Sir  Oliv.  Bags  and  bouquets! — Halters  and 
bastinadoes !  [Aside. 

Trip.  But  a  propos,  Moses — have  you  been 
able  to  get  me  that  little  bill  discounted? 

Sir  Oliv.  Wants  to  raise  money  too! — 
mercy  on  me!  has  his  distresses,  I  warrant, 
like  a  lord— and  affects  creditors  and  duns! 

[Aside. 

Mas.     Twas   not   to  be   done,  indeed 

Trip.  Good  lack — you  surprise  me — my 
friend  Brush  has  indorsed  it  and  I  thought 
when  he  put  his  name  at  the  back  of  a  bill, 
'twas  as  good  as  cash. 

Mas.     No,    'twouldn't   do. 

Trip.  A  small  sum— but  twenty  pound— 
harkee,  Moses,  do  you  think  you  could  get 
it  me  by  way  of  annuity  ? 

Sir  Oliv.  An  annuity!  ha!  ha!  a  footman 
raise  money  by  annuity!  Well  done,  Luxury, 
egad!  [Aside. 

Mas.  Who  would  you  get  to  join  with 
you? 

Trip.  You  know  my  Lord  Applice— you 
have  seen  him  however 

Mas.     Yes 

Trip.  You  must  have  observed  what  an 
appearance  he  makes— nobody  dresses  better, 


nobody     throws    off     faster— very     well, 
gentleman   will   stand  my   security. 


this 


Mas. 
place. 

Trip. 
my  place,  and  my  life  too,  if  you  please. 


Well — but     you     must     insure     your 
O    with     all    my    heart — I'll    insure 


Oliv.     It's    more    than    I    would    your 
But  is  there   nothing  you  could  de- 


Sir 
neck — 

Mos. 
posit  ? 

Trip.  Why  nothing  capital  of  my  master's 
wardrobe  has  dropped  lately— but  I  could  give 
you  a  mortgage  on  some  of  his  winter 
clothes  with  equity  of  redemption  before 
November  or — you  shall  have  the  reversion — 
of  the  French  velvet,  or  a  post  obit  on  the 
blue  and  silver — these  I  should  think,  Moses, 
with  a  few  pair  of  point  ruffles  as  a  collateral 
security — hey,  my  little  fellow? 

Mos.  Well,  well— we'll  talk  presently — we 
detain  the  gentlemen 

Sir  Oliv.  O,  pray,  don't  let  me  interrupt 
Mr.  Trip's  negotiation. 

Trip.  Harkee— I  heard  the  bell— I  believe, 
gentlemen,  I  can  now  introduce  you — don't 
forget  the  annuity,  little  Moses. 

Sir  Oliv.  If  the  man  be  a  shadow  of  his 
master,  this  is  the  Temple  of  Dissipation 
indeed !  [Exeunt'. 

SCENE  III 

.     CHARLES,    CARELESS,    ETC.,    ETC. 
At   Table  with   Wine. 

Chas.  'Fore  Heaven,  'tis  true!— there  is 
the  great  degeneracy  of  the  age — many  of  our 
acquaintance  have  taste,  spirit,  and  polite- 
ness-— but  plague  on't,  they  won't  drink. 

Care.  It  is  so  indeed,  Charles;  they  give 
into  all  the  substantial  luxuries  of  the  table — 
and  abstain  from  nothing  but  wine  and  wit. 
Oh,  certainly  society  suffers  by  it  intoler- 
ably, for  now  instead  of  the  social  spirit  of 
raillery  that  used  to  mantle  over  a  glass  of 
bright  Burgundy  their  conversation  is  be- 
come just  like  the  Spa  water  they  drink 
which  has  all  the  pertness  and  flatulence  of 
champagne  without  its  spirit  or  flavor. 

ist  Gent.  But  what  are  they  to  do  who 
love  play  better  than  wine? 

Care.  True — there's  Harry  diets  himself, 
for  gaming  and  is  now  under  a  hazard  regi- 
men. 

Chas.  Then  he'll  have  the  worst  of  it. 
What,  you  wouldn't  train  a  horse  for  the 
course  by  keeping  him  from  corn.  For  my 
part,  egad,  I  am  never  so  successful  as  when 
I'm  a  little — merry — let  me  throw  on  a  bottle 
of  champagne  and  I  never  lose — at  least  I 
never  feel  my  losses,  which  is  exactly  the 
same  thing. 

2d  Gent.  Aye,  that  may  be — but  it  is  as 
impossible  to  follow  wine  and  play  as  to 
unite  love  and  politics. 

Chas.  Pshaw!  you  may  do  both;  Caesar 
made  love  and  laws  in  a  breath— and  was 


413 


ACT  III,  Sc.  III. 


THE  SCHOOL  FOR  SCANDAL 


liked  by  the  Senate  as  well  as  the  ladies. 
But  no  man  can  pretend  to  be  a  believer  in 
love,  who  is  an  abjurer  of  wine — 'tis  the  test 
by  which  a  lover  knows  his  oprn  heart.  Fill 
a  dozen  bumpers  to  a  dozen  beauties,  and 
she  that  floats  atop  is  the  maid  that  has  be- 
witched you. 

Care.  Now  then,  Charles — be  honest  and 
give  us  yours 

Clias.  Why,  I  have  withheld  her  only  in 
compassion  to  you — if  I  toast  her  you  should 
give  a  round  of  her  peers,  which  is  impos- 
sible! on  earth! 

Care.  O,  then  we'll  find  some  canonized 
vestals  or  heathen  goddesses  that  will  do,  I 
warrant 

Chas.  Here,  then— bumpers— you  rogues- 
bumpers  !  Maria — Maria 

ist  Gent.     Maria  who? 

(''.-..•;.  Oh,  damn  the  surname;  'tis  too 
formal  to  be  registered  in  Love's  calendar- 
but  now,  Careless,  beware — beware — we  must 
have  Beauty's  superlative. 

ist  Gent.  Nay,  never  study,  Careless — we'll 
stand  to  the  toast — tho'  your  mistress  should 
want  an  eye — and  you  know  you  have  a  song 
will  excuse  you. 

Care.  Egad,  so  I  have — and  I'll  give  him 
the  song  instead  of  the  lady. 

SONG. — AND    CHORUS — 
Here's  to  the  maiden  of  bashful  fifteen; 

Here's  to  the  widow  of  fifty; 
Here's  to  the  flaunting  extravagant  quean, 

And  here's  to  the  housewife  that's  thrifty. 
Chorus.  Let  the  toast  pass, — 

Drink  to  the  lass, 

I'll    warrant    she'll    prove    an    excuse    for    a 
glass. 

Here's    to    the    charmer   whose    dimples    we 
prize; 

Now  to   the   maid  who  has  none,   sir; 
Here's  to  the  girl  with  a  pair  of  blue  eyes, 

And  here's  to  the  nymph  with  but  one,  sir. 
Chorus.  Let  the  toast  pass,  &c. 

Here's  to  the  maid  with  a  bosom  of  snow: 
Now  to  her  that's  as  brown  as  a  berry: 

Here's   to   the  wife  with   a  face  full   of  woe, 
And   now  to  the  damsel   that's   merry. 

Chorus.     Let  the  toast  pass,  &c. 

For  let  'em  be  clumsy,  or  let  'em  be  slim, 
Young  or  ancient,  I  care  not  a  feather; 

So  fill  a  pint  bumper  quite  up  to  the  brim, 

So  fill  up  your  glasses,  nay,  fill  to  the  brim, 
And  let   us   e'en   toast   them   together. 

Chorus.     Let  the  toast  pass,  &c. 


[Enter  TRIP,  whispers  CHARLES. 

zd  Gent.  Bravo,  Careless— There's  toast 
and  sentiment  too. 

ist  Gent.  E'faith,  there's  infinite  charity 
in  that  song. 

414 


Chas.  Gentlemen,  you  must  excuse  me  a 
little.  Careless,  take  the  chair,  will  you? 

Care.  Nay,  prithee,  Charles— what  now— 
this  is  one  of  your  peerless  beauties,  I  sup- 
pose, has  dropped  in  by  chance? 

Chas.  No,  faith,  to  tell  you  the  truth,  'tis 
a  Jew  and  a  broker  who  are  come  by  ap- 
pointment. 

Care.     O   damn    it,    let's   have   the   Jew   in. 

ist  Gent.  Aye  and  the  broker,  too,  by  all 
means 

2d  Gent.  Yes,  yes,  the  Jew  and  the 
broker. 

Chas.  Egad,  with  all  my  heart.  Trip,  bid 
the  gentlemen  walk  in— tho'  there's  one  of 
them  a  stranger  I  can  tell  you 

Trip.  What,  sir,  would  you  choose  Mr. 
Premium  to  come  up  with 

ist  Gent.    Yes,  yes,  Mr.  Premium,  certainly. 

Care.  To  be  sure,  Mr.  Premium,  by  all 
means,  Charles;  let  us  give  them  some  gen- 
erous Burgundy,  and  perhaps  they'll  grow 
conscientious 

Chas.  O,  hang  'em,  no;  wine  does  but 
draw  forth  a  man's  natural  qualities;  and  to 
make  them  drink  would  only  be  to  whet  their 
knavery. 

Enter  TRIP,  SIR  OLIVER,  and  MOSES. 

Chas.  So — honest  Moses,  walk  in,  walk  in, 
pray,  Mr.  Premium — that's  the  gentleman's 
name,  isn't  it,  Moses? 

Mas.     Yes,  sir. 

Chas.  Set  chairs,  Trim.— Sit  down,  Mr. 
Premium.  Glasses,  Trim.— Sit  down,  Moses. 
Come,  Mr.  Premium,  I'll  give  you  a  senti- 
ment. Here's  success  to  usury!  Moses  fill 
the  gentleman  a  bumper.  • 

Mas.     Success   to   usury! 

Care.  Right,  Moses,  usury  is  prudence  and 
industry  and  deserves  to  succeed. 

Sir  Oliv.  Then,  here  is — all  the  success  it 
deserves !  [Drinks. 

Chas.  Mr.  Premium,  you  and  I  are  but 
strangers  yet — but  I  hope  we  shall  be  better 
acquainted  by  and  bye 

Sir  Oliv.  Yes,  sir,  hope  we  shall — more 
intimately  perhaps  than  you'll  wish.  [Aside. 

Care.  No,  no,  that  won't  do !  Mr.  Pre- 
mium, you  have  demurred  at  the  toast,  and 
must  drink  it  in  a  pint  bumper. 

ist  Gent.     A  pint  bumper,  at  least. 

Mas.  Oh,  pray,  sir,  consider — Mr.  Pre- 
mium's a  gentleman. 

Care.     And  therefore  loves  good  wine. 

sd  Gent.  Give  Moses  a  quart  glass — this  is 
mutiny,  and  a  high  contempt  for  the  chair. 

Care.  Here,  now  for't!  I'll  see  justice 
done,  to  the  last  drop  of  my  bottle. 

Sir  Oliv.  Nay,  pray,  gentlemen,  I  did  not 
expect  this  usage. 

Chas.  No,  hang  it,  you  shan't;  Mr.  Pre- 
mium's a  stranger. 


THE  SCHOOL  FOR  SCANDAL 


ACT  III,  Sc.  III. 


Sir    Oliv.     Odd!   I   wish   I   was   well   out   of 


their   company. 


[Aside. 


Care.  Plague  on  'em  then!  if  they  won't 
drink,  we'll  not  sit  down  with  them.  Come, 
Harry,  the  dice  are  in  the  next  room. — 
Charles,  you'll  join  us  when  you  have  finished 
your  business  with  the  gentlemen? 

Chas.  I  will!  I  will! — [Exeunt  SIR  HARRY 
BUMPER  and  GENTLEMEN;  CARELESS  following.} 
Careless. 

Care.    [Returning.}     Well! 

Chas.     Perhaps   I  may  want  you. 

Care.  Oh,  you  know  I  am  always  ready: 
word,  note,  or  bond,  'tis  all  the  same  to  me. 

[Exit. 

Mas.  Sir,  this  is  Mr.  Premium,  a  gentle- 
man of  the  strictest  honor  and  secrecy; 
and  always  performs  what  he  undertakes. 
Mr.  Premium,  this  is 

Chas.  Psha!  have  done.  Sir,  my  friend 
Moses  is  a  very  honest  fellow,  but  a  little 
slow  at  expression:  he'll  be  an  hour  giving 
us  our  titles.  Mr.  Premium,  the  plain  state  of 
the  matter  is  this:  I  am  an  extravagant  young 
fellow  who  wants  to  borrow  money;  you  I 
take  to  be  a  prudent  old  fellow,  who  have 
got  money  to  lend.  I  am  blockhead  enough 
to  give  fifty  per  cent,  sooner  than  not  have 
it!  and  you,  I  presume,  are  rogue  enough  to 
take  a  hundred  if  you  can  get  it.  Now,  sir, 
you  see  we  are  acquainted  at  once,  and  may 
proceed  to  business  without  further  cere- 
mony. 

Sir  Oliv.  Exceeding  frank,  upon  my  word. 
I  see,  sir,  you  are  not  a  man  of  many  com- 
pliments. 

Chas.  Oh,  no,  sir !  plain  dealing  in  business 
I  always  think  best. 

Sir  Oliv.  Sir,  I  like  you  the  better  for  it. 
However,  you  are  mistaken  in  one  thing;  I 
have  no  money  to  lend,  but  I  believe  I  could 
procure  some  of  a  friend;  but  then  he's  an 
unconscionable  dog.  Isn't  he,  Moses?  And 
must  sell  stock  to  accommodate  you. 
Mustn't  he,  Moses! 

Mas.  Yes,  indeed!  You  know  I  always 
speak  the  truth,  and  scorn  to  tell  a  lie! 

Chas.  Right.  People  that  speak  truth 
generally  do.  But  these  are  trifles,  Mr.  Pre- 
mium. What!  I  know  money  isn't  to  be 
bought  without  paying  for't! 

Sir  Oliv.  Well,  but  what  security  could 
you  give?  You  have  no  land,  I  suppose? 

Chas.  Not  a  mole-hill,  nor  a  twig,  but 
what's  in  the  bough-pots  out  of  the  win- 
dow! 

Sir  Oliv.     Nor  any  stock,   I  presume? 

Chas.  Nothing  but  live  stock — and  that's 
only  a  few  pointers  and  ponies.  But  pray, 
Mr.  Premium,  are  you  acquainted  at  all  with 
any  of  my  connections  ? 

Sir  Olii'.     Why,  to  say  the  truth,  I  am. 
,     Chas.     Then  you  must  know  that  I  have  a 
devilish   rich   uncle   in   the    East   Indies,   Sir 


Oliver  Surface,  from  whom  I  have  the  great- 
est expectations? 

Sir  Oliv.  That  you  have  a  wealthy  uncle, 
I  have  heard;  but  how  your  expectations  will 
turn  out  is  more,  I  believe,  than  you  can 
tell. 

Chas.  Oh,  no!  there  can  be  no  doubt. 
They  tell  me  I'm  a  prodigious  favorite,  and 
that  he  talks  of  leaving  me  everything. 

Sir  Oliver.  Indeed!  this  is  the  first  I've 
heard  of  it. 

Chas.  Yes,  yes,  'tis  just  so.  Moses  knows 
'tis  true;  don't  you,  Moses? 

Mos.     Oh,  yes!  I'll  swear  to't. 

Sir  Oliv.     Egad,  they'll  persuade  me  pres- 


ently   I'm    at    Bengal. 


[Aside. 


Chas.  Now  I  propose,  Mr.  Premium,  if  it's 
agreeable  to  you,  a  post-obit  on  Sir  Oliver's 
life:  though  at  the  same  time  the  old  fellow 
has  been  so  liberal  to  me,  that  I  give  you 
my  word,  I  should  be  very  sorry  to  hear  that 
anything  had  happened  to  him. 

Sir  Oliv.  Not  more  than  I  should,  I  as- 
sure you.  But  the  bond  you  mention  hap- 
pens to  be  just  the  worst  security  you  could 
offer  me — for  I  might  live  to  a  hundred  and 
never  see  the  principal. 

Chas.  Oh,  yes,  you  would!  the  moment 
Sir  Oliver  dies,  you  know,  you  would  come 
on  me  for  the  money. 

Sir  Oliv.  Then  I  believe  I  should  be  the 
most  unwelcome  dun  you  ever  had  in  your 
life. 

Chas.  What!  I  suppose  you're  afraid  that 
Sir  Oliver  is  too  good  a  life? 

Sir  Oliv.  No,  indeed  I  am  not;  though  I 
have  heard  he  is  as  hale  and  healthy  as 
any  man  of  his  years  in  Christendom. 

Chas.  There  again,  now,  you  are  misin- 
formed. No,  no,  the  climate  has  hurt  him 
considerably,  poor  uncle  Oliver.  Yes,  yes, 
he  breaks  apace,  I'm  told — and  is  so  much 
altered  lately  that  his  nearest  relations  would 
not  know  him. 

Sir  Oliv.  No!  Ha!  ha!  ha!  so  much  al- 
tered lately  that  his  nearest  relations  would 
not  know  him!  Ha!  ha!  ha!  egad— ha!  ha! 
ha! 

Chas.  Ha!  ha! — you're  glad  to  hear  that, 
little  Premium? 

Sir  Oliv.     No,  no,  I'm  not. 

Chas.  Yes,  yes,  you  are — ha!  ha!  ha! — 
you  know  that  mends  your  chance. 

Sir  Oliv.  But  I'm  told  Sir  Oliver  is  coin- 
ing over;  nay,  some  say  he  is  actually  ar- 
rived. 

Chas.  Psha!  sure  I  must  know  better  than 
you  whether  he's  come  or  not.  No,  no,  rely 
on't  he's  at  this  moment  at  Calcutta.  Isn't 
he,  Mosei? 

Mos.     Oh,   yes,   certainly. 

Sir  Oliv.  Very  true,  as  you  say,  you  must 
know  better  than  I,  though  I  have  it  from 
pretty  good  authority.  Haven't  I,  Moses  ? 


415 


ACT  IV,  Sc.  I. 


THE  SCHOOL    FOR  SCANDAL 


Mas.     Yes,   most   undoubted! 

5«V  OH-'.  But,  sir,  as  I  understand  you 
want  a  few  hundreds  immediately,  is  there 
nothing  you  could  dispose  of? 

Chas.     How  do  you  mean? 

Sir  Oliv.  For  instance,  now,  I  have  heard 
that  your  father  left  behind  him  a  great 
quantity  of  massy  old  plate. 

Chas.  O  Lud!  that's  gone  long  ago. 
Moses  can  tell  you  how  better  than  I  can. 

Sir  (>//.-.  [Aside.]  Good  lack!  all  the 
family  race-cups  and  corporation-bowls! — 
[Aloud.']  Then  it  was  also  supposed  that  his 
library  was  one  of  the  most  valuable  and 
compact. 

Chas.  Yes,  yes,  so  it  was — vastly  too 
much  so  for  a  private  gentleman.  For  my 
part,  I  was  always  of  a  communicative  dis- 
position, so  I  thought  it  a  shame  to  keep  so 
much  knowledge  to  myself. 

Sir  Oliv.  [Aside.]  Mercy  upon  me!  learn- 
ing that  had  run  in  the  family  like  an  heir- 
loom!— [Aloud.']  Pray,  what  has  become  of 
the  books? 

Chas.  You  must  inquire  of  the  auctioneer, 
Master  Premium,  for  I  don't  believe  even 
Moses  can  direct  you. 

Mas.     I  know  nothing  of  books. 

Sir  Olir.  So,  so,  nothing  of  the  family 
property  left,  I  suppose? 

Clnis.  Not  much,  indeed;  unless  you  have 
a  mind  to  the  family  pictures.  I  have  got 
a  room  full  of  ancestors  above:  and  if  you 
have  a  taste  for  old  paintings,  egad,  you 
shall  have  'em  a  bargain! 

Sir  Oliv.  Hey!  what  the  devil!  sure,  you 
wouldn't  sell  your  forefathers,  would  you? 

Chas.  Every  man  of  them,  to  the  best 
bidder. 

Sir  Oliv.  What!  your  great-uncles  and 
aunts? 

Chas.  Ay,  and  my  great-grandfathers  and 
grandmothers  too. 

Sir  Oliv.  [Aside.]  Now  I  give  him  up! — 
[Aloud.]  What  the  plague,  have  you  no 
bowels  for  your  own  kindred?  Odd's  life!  do 
you  take  me  for  Shylock  in  the  play,  that 
you  would  raise  money  of  me  on  your  own 
flesh  and  blood? 

Chas.  Nay,  my  little  broker,  don't  be 
angry:  what  need  you  care,  if  you  have  your 
money's  worth? 

Sir  Oliv.  Well,  I'll  be  the  purchaser:  I 
think  I  can  dispose  of  the  family  canvas. — 
[Aside.]  Oh,  I'll  never  forgive  him  this! 
never! 

Re-enter  CARELESS. 

Care.     Come,    Charles,    what    keeps   you? 

Chas.  I  can't  come  yet.  I'faith,  we  are 
going  to  have  a  sale  above  stairs;  here's 
little  Premium  will  buy  all  my  ancestors! 

Care.     Oh,   burn   your   ancestors! 

Chas.     No,  he  may  do   that  afterwards,   if 


he  pleases.  Stay,  Careless,  we  want  you: 
egad,  you  shall  be  auctioneer — so  come  along 
with  us. 

Care.  Oh,  have  with  you,  if  that's  the 
case.  I  can  handle  a  hammer  as  well  as  a 
dice  box !  Going !  going ! 

Sir   Oliv.     Oh,    the    profligates!  [Aside. 

Chas.  Come,  Moses,  you  shall  be  ap- 
praiser, if  we  want  one.  Gad's  life,  little 
Premium,  you  don't  seem  to  like  the  busi- 
ness? 

Sir  Oliv.  Oh,  yes,  I  do,  vastly!  Ha!  ha! 
ha!  yes,  yes,  I  think  it  a  rare  joke  to  sell 
one's  family  by  auction — ha!  ha! — [Aside.] 
Oh,  the  prodigal ! 

Chas.  To  be  sure!  when  a  man  wants 
money,  where  the  plague  should  he  get 
assistance,  if  he  can't  make  free  with  his 
own  relations  ?  [Exeunt. 

Sir  Oliv.  I'll  never  forgive  him;  never! 
never ! 

ACT  IV 

SCENE   I 
A  Picture  Room  in  CHARLES  SURFACE'S  House. 

Enter     CHARLES,     SIR     OLIVER,     MOSES,     and 
CARELESS. 

Chas.  Walk  in,  gentlemen,  pray  walk  in; 
— here  they  are,  the  family  of  the  Surfaces, 
up  to  the  Conquest. 

Sir  Oliv.  And,  in  my  opinion,  a  goodly 
collection. 

Chas.  Ay,  ay,  these  are  done  in  the  true 
spirit  of  portrait-painting;  no  volontitre  grace 
or  expression.  Not  like  the  works  of  your 
modern  Raphaels,  who  give  you  the  stron- 
gest resemblance,  yet  contrive  to  make  your 
portrait  independent  of  you;  so  that  you  may 
sink  the  original  and  not  hurt  the  picture. 
No,  no;  the  merit  of  these  is  the  inveterate 
likeness — all  stiff  and  awkward  as  the  origi- 
nals, and  like  nothing  in  human  nature  be- 
sides. 

Sir  Oliv.  Ah!  we  shall  never  see  such 
figures  of  men  again. 

Chas.  I  hope  not.  Well,  you  see,  Master 
Premium,  what  a  domestic  character  I  am; 
here  I  sit  of  an  evening  surrounded  by  my 
family.  But  come,  get  to  your  pulpit,  Mr. 
Auctioneer;  here's  an  old  gouty  chair  of  my 
grandfather's  will  answer  the  purpose. 

Care.  Ay,  ay,  this  will  do.  But,  Charles, 
I  haven't  a  hammer;  and  what's  an  auc- 
tioneer without  his  hammer? 

Chan.  Egad,  that's  true.  .What  parch- 
ment have  we  here?  Oh,  our  genealogy  in 
full.  [Taking  pedigree  down.]  Here,  Careless, 
you  shall  have  no  common  bit  of  mahogany, 
here's  the  family  tree  for  you,  you  rogue! 
This  shall  be  your  hammer,  and  now  you  may 


416 


THE  SCHOOL  FOR  SCANDAL 


ACT  IV,  Sc.  I. 


knock  down  my  ancestors  with  their  own 
pedigree. 

Sir  Oliv.  What  an  unnatural  rogue! — an 
ex  post  facto  parricide!  [Aside. 

Care.  Yes,  yes,  here's  a  list  of  your  gen- 
eration indeed; — faith,  Charles,  this  is  the 
most  convenient  thing  you  could  have  found 
for  the  business,  for  'twill  not  only  serve  as 
a  hammer,  but  a  catalogue  into  the  bargain. 
Come,  begin — A-going,  a-going,  a-going! 

Chas.  Bravo,  Careless!  Well,  here's  my 
great  uncle,  Sir  Richard  Ravelin,  a  marvel- 
lous good  general  in  his  day,  I  assure  you. 
He  served  in  all  the  Duke  of  Marlborough's 
wars,  and  got  that  cut  over  his  eye  at  the 
battle  of  Malplaquet.  What  say  you,  Mr. 
Premium?  look  at  him — there's  a  hero!  not 
cut  out  of  his  feathers,  as  your  modern 
clipped  captains  are,  but  enveloped  in  wig 
and  regimentals,  as  a  general  should  be. 
What  do  you  bid? 

Sir  Oliv.   [Aside  to  MOSES.]   Bid  him  speak. 

Mas.     Mr.  Premium  would  have  you  speak. 

Chas.  Why,  then,  he  shall  have  him  for 
ten  pounds,  and  I'm  sure  that's  not  dear  for 
a  staff-officer. 

Sir  Oliv.  [Aside.']  Heaven  deliver  me!  his 
famous  uncle  Richard  for  ten  pounds ! — 
[Aloud.}  Very  well,  sir,  I  take  him  at  that. 

Chas.  Careless,  knock  down  my  uncle 
Richard. — Here,  now,  is  a  maiden  sister  of 
his,  my  great-aunt  Deborah,  done  by  Kneller, 
in  his  best  manner,  and  esteemed  a  very 
formidable  likeness.  There  she  is,  you  see, 
a  shepherdess  feeding  her  flock.  You  shall 
have  her  for  five  pounds  ten — the  sheep  are 
worth  the  money. 

Sir  Oliv.  [Aside.']  Ah!  poor  Deborah!  a 
woman  who  set  such  a  value  on  herself!— 
[Aloud.]  Five  pounds  ten — she's  mine. 

Chas.  Knock  down  my  aunt  Deborah ! 
Here,  now,  are  two  that  were  a  sort  of 
cousins  of  theirs. — You  see,  Moses,  these 
pictures  were  done  some  time  ago,  when 
beaux  wore  wigs,  and  the  ladies  their  own 
hair. 

Sir  Oliv.  Yes,  truly,  head-dresses  appear 
to  have  been  a  little  lower  in  those  days. 

Chas.     Well,  take  that  couple  for  the  same. 

Mas.     "Tis  a  good  bargain. 

Chas.  Careless! — This,  now,  is  a  grand- 
father of  my  mother's,  a  learned  judge,  well 
known  on  the  western  circuit. — What  do  you 
rate  him  at,  Moses? 

Mas.     Four  guineas. 

Chas.  Four  guineas!  Gad's  life,  you  don't 
bid  me  the  price  of  his  wig. — Mr.  Premium, 
you  have  more  respect  for  the  woolsack; 
do  let  us  knock  his  lordship  down  at  fifteen. 

Sir    Oliv.     By    all   means. 

Care.     Gone ! 

Chas.  And  there  are  two  brothers  of  his, 
William  and  Walter  Blunt,  Esquires,  both 


members  of  Parliament,  and  noted  speakers; 
and,  what's  very  extraordinary,  I  believe, 
this  is  the  first  time  they  were  ever  bought 
or  sold. 

Sir  Oliv.  That  is  very  extraordinary,  in- 
deed! I'll  take  them  at  your  own  price,  for 
the  honor  of  Parliament. 

Care.  Well  said,  little  Premium!  I'll 
knock  them  down  at  forty. 

Chas.  Here's  a  jolly  fellow— I  don't  know 
what  relation,  but  he  was  mayor  of  Nor- 
wich: take  him  at  eight  pounds. 

Sir  Oliv.  No,  no;  six  will  do  for  the 
mayor. 

Chas.  Come,  make  it  guineas,  and  I'll 
throw  you  the  two  aldermen  here  into  the 
bargain. 

Sir    Oliv.     They're    mine. 

Chas.  Careless,  knock  down  the  mayor 
and  aldermen.  But,  plague  on't!  we  shall 
be  all  day  retailing  in  this  manner;  do  let 
us  deal  wholesale:  what  say  you,  little  Pre- 
mium? Give  me  three  hundred  pounds  for 
the  rest  of  the  family  in  the  lump. 

Care.     Ay,   ay,   that   will   be   the   best  way. 

Sir  Oliv.  Well,  well,  anything  to  accom- 
modate you;  they  are  mine.  But  there  is 
one  portrait  which  you  have  always  passed 
over. 

Care.  What,  that  ill-looking  little  fellow 
over  the  settee? 

Sir  Oliv.  Yes,  sir,  I  mean  that;  though 
I  don't  think  him  so  ill-looking  a  little  fel- 
low, by  any  means. 

Chas.  What,  that?  Oh;  that's  my  uncle 
Oliver.  'Twas  done  before  he  went  to 
India. 

Care.  Your  uncle  Oliver!  Gad,  then  you'll 
never  be  friends,  Charles.  That,  now,  to  me, 
is  as  stern  a  looking  rogue  as  ever  I  saw; 
an  unforgiving  eye,  and  a  damned  disin- 
heriting countenance!  an  inveterate  knave, 
depend  on't.  Don't  you  think  so,  little  Pre- 
mium? 

Sir  Oliv.  Upon  my  soul,  sir,  I  do  not;  I 
think  it  is  as  honest  a  looking  face  as  any  in 
the  room,  dead  or  alive.  But  I  suppose  uncle 
Oliver  goes  with  the  rest  of  the  lumber? 

Chas.  No,  hang  it !  I'll  not  part  with  poor 
Noll.  The  old  fellow  has  been  very  good  to 
me,  and,  egad,  I'll  keep  his  picture  while  I've 
a  room  to  put  it  in. 

Sir  Oliv.  [Aside.']  The  rogue's  my  nephew 
after  a\\\— [Aloud.]  But,  sir,  I  have  somehow 
taken  a  fancy  to  that  picture. 

Chas.  I'm  sorry  for't,  for  you  certainly 
will  not  have  it.  Oons,  haven't  you  got 
enough  of  them? 

Sir  Oliv.  [Aside.]  I  forgive  him  every- 
thing!— [Aloud.]  But,  sir,  when  I  take  a  whim 
in  my  head,  I  don't  value  money.  I'll  give 
you  as  much  for  that  as  for  all  the  rest. 

Chas.     Don't    tease    me,    master    broker;    I 


417 


ACT  IV,  Sc.  II. 


THE  SCHOOL  FOR  SCANDAL 


tell  you  I'll  not  part  with  it,  and  there's  an 
end  of  it. 

Sir  Oik:  [Aside.]  How  like  his  father  the 
dog  is.— [Aloud.]  Well,  well,  I  have  done.— 
[Aside.]  I  did  not  perceive  it  before,  but  I 
think  I  never  saw  such  a  striking  resem- 
blance.— [Aloud.]  Here  is  a  draught  for  your 
sum. 

Chas.     Why,  'tis  for  eight  hundred  pounds! 

Sir  Oliv.     You  will  not  let   Sir  Oliver  go? 

Chas.     Zounds!  no!  I   tell  you,  once  more. 

Sir  Oliv.  Then  never  mind  the  difference, 
we'll  balance  that  another  time.  But  give 
me  your  hand  on  the  bargain;  you  are  an 
honest  fellow,  Charles— I  beg  pardon,  sir,  for 
being  so  free. — Come,  Moses. 

Chas.  Egad,  this  is  a  whimsical  old  fel- 
low!—But  hark'ee,  Premium,  you'll  prepare 
lodgings  for  these  gentlemen. 

Sir  Oliv.  Yes,  yes,  I'll  send  for  them  in 
a  day  or  two. 

Chas.  But,  hold;  do  now  send  a  genteel 
conveyance  for  them,  for,  I  assure  you,  they 
were  most  of  them  used  to  ride  in  their  own 
carriages. 

Sir  Oliv.     I  will,  I  will— for  all  but  Oliver. 

Chas.     Ay,  all  but  the  little  nabob. 

Sir   Oliv.     You're  fixed   on   that? 

Chas.     Peremptorily. 

Sir  Oliv.  [Aside.]  A  dear  extravagant 
rogue!—  [Aloud.]  Good  day!  Come,  Moses. — 
[Aside.]  Let  me  hear  now  who  dares  call 
him  profligate!  [Exit  with  MOSES. 

Care.  Why,  this  is  the  oddest  genius  of 
the  sort  I  ever  met  with! 

Clms.  Egad,  he's  the  prince  of  brokers,  I 
think.  I  wonder  how  the  devil  Moses  got 
acquainted  with  so  honest  a  fellow. — Ha! 
here's  Rowley. — Do,  Careless,  say  I'll  join 
the  company  in  a  few  moments. 

Care.  I  will— but  don't  let  that  old  block- 
head persuade  you  to  squander  any  of  that 
money  on  old  musty  debts,  or  any  such  non- 
sense; for  tradesmen,  Charles,  are  the  most 
exorbitant  fellows. 

Chas.  Very  true,  and  paying  them  is  only 
encouraging  them. 

Care.     Nothing   else. 

Chas.  Ay,  ay,  never  fear. — [Exit  CARE- 
LESS.] So!  this  was  an  odd  old  fellow,  in- 
deed. Let  me  see,  two-thirds  of  these  five 
hundred  and  thirty  odd  pounds  are  mine  by 
right.  Fore  Heaven!  I  find  one's  ancestors 
are  more  valuable  relations  than  I  took  them 
for! — Ladies  and  gentlemen,  your  most  obe- 
dient and  very  grateful  servant. 

[Bows  ceremoniously  to  the  pictures. 

Enter  ROWLEY. 

Ha !  old  Rowley !  egad,  you  are  just  come  in 

time  to  take  leave  of  your  old  acquaintance. 

Row.     Yes,    I    heard    they    were    a-going. 


But  I  wonder  you  can  have  such  spirits 
under  so  many  distresses. 

Chas.  Why,  there's  the  point!  my  dis- 
tresses are  so  many,  that  I  can't  afford  to 
part  with  my  spirits;  but  I  shall  be  rich 
and  splenetic,  all  in  good  time.  However,  I 
suppose  you  are  surprised  that  I  am  not  more 
sorrowful  at  parting  with  so  many  near  re- 
lations; to  be  sure,  'tis  very  affecting;  but 
you  see  they  never  move  a  muscle,  so  why 
should  I? 

Row.  There's  no  making  you  serious  a 
moment. 

Chas.  Yes,  faith,  I  am  so  now.  Here,  my 
honest  Rowley,  here,  get  me  this  changed  di- 
rectly, and  take  a  hundred  pounds  of  it  im- 
mediately to  old  Stanley. 

Row.  A  hundred  pounds!  Consider 
only 

Chas.  Gad's  life,  don't  talk  about  it!  poor 
Stanley's  wants  are  pressing,  and,  if  you 
don't  make  haste,  we  shall  have  some  one 
call  that  has  a  better  right  to  the  money. 

Row.  Ah !  there's  the  point !  I  never  will 
cease  dunning  you  with  the  old  proverb 

Chas.  Be  just  before  you're  generous. — 
Why,  so  I  would  if  I  could;  but  Justice  is  an 
old  hobbling  beldame,  and  I  can't  get  her  to 
keep  pace  with  Generosity,  for  the  soul  of 
me. 

Row.  Yet,  Charles,  believe  me,  one  hour's 
reflection 

Chas.  Ay,  ay,  it's  very  true;  but,  hark'ee, 
Rowley,  while  I  have,  by  Heaven  I'll  give; 
so,  damn  your  economy!  and  now  for  hazard. 

[Exeunt. 

SCENE  II 

lite   Parlor. 

Enter   SIR    OLIVER    and   MOSES. 

Mas.  Well  sir,  I  think,  as  Sir  Peter  said, 
you  have  seen  Mr.  Charles  in  high  glory — 'tis 
great  pity  he's  so  extravagant. 

Sir  Oliv.  True — but  he  would  not  sell  my 
picture — 

Mas.  And  loves  wine  and  women  so 
much — 

Sir  Oliv.     But  he  wouldn't  sell  my  picture. 

Mas.     And  game  so  deep — 

Sir  Oliv.  But  he  wouldn't  sell  my  picture. 
O,  here's  Rowley! 

Enter  ROWLEY. 

Row.  So,  Sir  Oliver.  I  find  you  have  made 
a  purchase 

Sir  Oliv.  Yes,  yes,  our  young  rake  has 
parted  with  his  ancestors  like  old  tapestry — 
scld  judges  and  generals  by  the  foot,  and 
maiden  aunts  as  cheap  as  broken  china. 

Row.  And  here  has  he  commissioned  me 
to  re-deliver  you  part  of  the  purchase-money 


418 


THE  SCHOOL  FOR  SCANDAL 


ACT  IV,  Sc.  III. 


— I  mean,  though,  in  your  necessitous  char- 
acter of  old  Stanley 

.I/.'.?.  Ah!  there  is  the  pity  of  all!  He  is 
so  damned  charitable. 

Row.  And  I  left  a  hosier  and  two  tailors 
in  the  hall,  who,  I'm  sure,  won't  be  paid,  and 
this  hundred  would  satisfy  'em. 

Sir  Oliv.  Well— well— I'll  pay  his  debts  and 
his  benevolences  too— I'll  take  care  of  old 
Stanley— myself.  But  now  I  am  no  more  a 
broker,  and  you  shall  introduce  me  to  the 
elder  brother  as  Stanley 

Row.  Not  yet  a  while;  Sir  Peter,  I  know, 
means  to  call  there  about  this  time. 

Enter   TRIP. 

Trip.     O,  gentlemen,  I  beg  pardon  for  not 

showing  you  out — this  way;   Moses,  a  word. 

[Exit   TRIP  with   MOSES. 

Sir  Oliv.  There's  a  fellow  for  you! 
Would  you  believe  it  that  puppy  intercepted 
the  Jew,  on  our  coming,  and  wanted  to  raise 
money  before  he  got  to  his  master! 

Row.     Indeed ! 

Sir  Oliv.  Yes;  they  are  now  planning  an 
annuity  business.  Ah,  Master  Rowley,  in 
my  day  servants  were  content  with  the  fol- 
lies of  their  masters  when  they  were  worn 
a  little  threadbare,  but  now  they  have  their 
vices  like  their  birthday  clothes  with  the 
gloss  on.  [Exeunt. 

SCENE    III 

A   Library. 

SURFACE    and    SERVANT. 

Surf.     No  letter  from  Lady  Teazle? 

Serv.     No,    sir. 

Surf.  I  am  surprised  she  hasn't  sent  if  she 
is  prevented  from  coming!  Sir  Peter  cer- 
tainly does  not  suspect  me,  yet  I  wish  I 
may  not  lose  the  heiress,  through  the  scrape 
I  have  drawn  myself  in  with  the  wife.  How- 
ever, Charles's  imprudence  and  bad  char- 
acter are  great  points  in  my  favor. 

Serv.  Sir,  I  believe  that  must  be  Lady 
Teazle— 

Surf.  Hold!  see  whether  it  is  or  not  be- 
fore you  go  to  the  door;  I  have  a  particular 
message  for  you  if  it  should  be  my  brother. 

Serv.  'Tis  her  ladyship,  sir.  She  always 
leaves  her  chair  at  the  milliner's  in  the  next 
street. 

Surf.  Stay,  stay,  draw  that  screen  be- 
fore the  window — that  will  do;  my  opposite 
neighbor  is  a  maiden  lady  of  so  curious  a 
temper! — [SERVANT  draws  the  screen  and  exit.] 
I  have  a  difficult  hand  to  play  in  this  affair; 
Lady  Teazle  has  lately  suspected  my  views 
on  Maria,  but  she  must  by  no  means  be  let 
into  that  secret,  at  least  till  I  have  her  more 
in  my  power. 


Enter  LADY  TEAZLE. 

Lady  1'eaz.  What!  sentiment  in  soliloquy; 
have  you  been  very  impatient  now?  O  Lud! 
don't  pretend  to  look  grave — I  vow  I 
couldn't  come  before. 

Surf.  O  madam,  punctuality  is  a  species 
of  constancy,  a  very  unfashionable  quality  in 
a  lady. 

Lady  Teas.  Upon  my  word  you  ought  to 
pity  me;  do  you  know  Sir  Peter  is  grown 
so  ill-tempered  to  me  of  late;  and  so  jeal- 
ous! of  Charles,  too; — that's  the  best  of  the 
story,  isn't  it? 

Surf.  I  am  glad  my  scandalous  friends 
keep  that  up.  [Aside. 

Lady  Teas.  I  am  sure  I  wish  he  would 
let  Maria  marry  him,  and  then  perhaps  he 
would  be  convinced, — don't  you,  Mr.  Sur- 
face? 

Surf.  Indeed  I  do  not.  [Aside.]  O  cer- 
tainly I  do,  for  then  my  dear  Lady  Teazle 
would  also  be  convinced  how  wrong  her 
suspicions  were  of  my  having  any  design  on 
the  silly  girl. 

Lady  Teas.  Well,  well,  I'm  inclined  to 
believe  you;  besides  I  really  never  could 
perceive  why  she  should  have  so  many 
admirers. 

Surf.    O  for  her  fortune — nothing  else. 

Lady  Teas.  I  believe  so,  for  tho'  she  is 
certainly  very  pretty,  yet  she  has  no  con- 
versation in  the  world,  and  is  so  grave  and 
reserved  that  I  declare  I  think  she'd  have 
made  an  excellent  wife  for  Sir  Peter. 

Surf.     So    she   would. 

Lady  Teas.  Then — one  never  hears  her 
speak  ill  of  anybody — which  you  know  is 
mighty  dull. 

Surf.    Yet  she  doesn't  want  understanding. 

Lady  Teas.  No  more  she  does — yet  one 
is  always  disappointed  when  one  hears  her 
speak.  For  though  her  eyes  have  no  kind 
of  meaning  in  them,  she  very  seldom  talks 
nonsense. 

Surf.  Nay,  nay,  surely — she  has  very  fine 
eyes. 

Lady  Teas.  Why,  so  she  has — tho'  some- 
times one  fancies  there's  a  little  sort  of  a 
squint. 

Surf.     A    squint— O    fie — Lady   Teazle. 

Lady  Teas.  Yes,  yes,  I  vow  now — come, 
there  is  a  left-handed  Cupid  in  one  eye — 
that's  the  truth  on't. 

Surf.  Well,  his  aim  is  very  direct  how- 
ever,— but  Lady  Sneerwell  has  quite  cor- 
rupted you. 

Lady  Teas.  No,  indeed,  I  have  not  opin- 
ion enough  of  her  to  be  taught  by  her,  and 
I  know  that  she  has  lately  raised  many  scan- 
dalous hints  of  me 
ways  hears  from 
other. 


-which  you  know  one  al- 
one   common    friend 


419 


ACT  IV,  Sc.  III. 


THE  SCHOOL  FOR  SCANDAL 


Surf.  Why,  to  say  truth,  I  believe  you 
are  not  more  obliged  to  her  than  others  of 
her  acquaintance. 

Lady  Teas.  But  isn't  it  provoking  to  hear 
the  most  ill-natured  things  said  to  one,  and 
there's  my  friend  Lady  Sneerwell  has  cir- 
culated I  don't  know  how  many  scandalous 
tales  of  me,  and  all  without  any  foundation, 
too;  that's  what  vexes  me. 

Surf.  Aye,  madam,  to  be  sure  that  is  the 
provoking  circumstance — without  foundation 
— yes,  yes — there's  the  mortification  indeed— 
for  when  a  slanderous  story  is  believed 
against  one,  there  certainly  is  no  comfort 
like  the  consciousness  of  having  deserved  it. 

Lady  Teas.  No,  to  be  sure;  then  I'd  for- 
give their  malice — but  to  attack  me,  who 
am  really  so  innocent  and  who  never  say  an 
ill-natured  thing  of  anybody — that  is,  of  any 
friend — !  and  then  Sir  Peter  too — to  have  him 
so  peevish — and  so  suspicious — when  I  know 
the  integrity  of  my  own  heart — indeed  'tis 
monstrous. 

Surf.  But,  my  dear  Lady  Teazle,  'tis  your 
own  fault  if  you  suffer  it — when  a  husband 
entertains  a  groundless  suspicion  of  his  wife 
and  withdraws  his  confidence  from  her — the 
original  compact  is  broke  and  she  owes  it 
to  the  honor  of  her  sex  to  endeavor  to 
outwit  him. 

Lady  Teas.  Indeed!  So  that  if  he  sus- 
pects me  without  cause,  it  follows  that 
the  best  way  of  curing  his  jealousy  is  to 
give  him  reason  for't. 

Surf.  Undoubtedly — for  your  husband 
should  never  be  deceived  in  you — and  in  that 
case  it  becomes  you  to  be  frail  in  compliment 
to  his  discernment. 

Lady  Teaz.  To  be  sure  what  you  say  is 
very  reasonable — and  when  the  conscious- 
ness of  my  own  innocence 

Surf.  Ah,  my  dear — madam,  there  is  the 
great  mistake — 'tis  this  very  conscious 
innocence  that  is  of  the  greatest  prejudice  to 
you.  What  is  it  makes  you  negligent  of 
forms  and  careless  of  the  world's  opinion? — 
why,  the  consciousness  of  your  innocence — 
what  makes  you  thoughtless  in  your  con- 
duct and  apt  to  run  into  a  thousand  little 
imprudences? — why,  the  consciousness  of 
your  innocence — what  makes  you  impatient 
of  Sir  Peter's  temper,  and  outrageous  at  his 
suspicions  ?— why,  the  consciousness  of  your 

Lady   Teaz.     Tis   very   true. 

Surf.  Now,  my  dear  Lady  Teazle,  if  you 
but  once  make  a  trifling  faux  pas,  you  can't 
conceive  how  cautious  you  would  grow,  and 
how  ready  to  humor  and  agree  with  your 
husband. 

Lady  Teas.     Do  you  think  so? 

Surf.  O,  I'm  sure  on't;  and  then  you'd 
find  all  scandal  would  cease  at  once,  for 


in  short  your  character  at  present  is  like  a 
person  in  a  plethora,  absolutely  dying  of 
too  much  health. 

Lady  Teas.  So — so — then  I  perceive  your 
prescription  is  that  I  must  sin  in  my  own 
defence,  and  part  with  my  virtue  to  preserve 
my  reputation. 

Surf.     Exactly  so  upon  my  credit,  ma'am. 

Lady  Teas.  Well,  certainly  this  is  the  odd- 
est doctrine — and  the  newest  receipt  for 
avoiding  calumny. 

Surf.  An  infallible  one,  believe  me — pru- 
dence like  experience  must  be  paid  for. 

Lady  Teas.  Why,  if  my  understanding 
were  once  convinced 

Surf.  Oh,  certainly  madam,  your  under- 
standing should  be  convinced — yes — yes — 
Heaven  forbid  I  should  persuade  you  to  do 
anything  you  thought  wrong — no — no — I 
have  too  much  honor  to  desire  it. 

Lady  Teas.  Don't— you  think  we  may  as 
well  leave  honor  out  of  the  argument? 

[Rises. 

Surf.  Ah — the  ill  effects  of  your  country 
education  I  see  still  remain  with  you. 

Lady  Teas.  I  doubt  they  do  indeed — and 
I  will  fairly  own  to  you,  that  if  I  could  be 
persuaded  to  do  wrong  it  would  be  by  Sir 
Peter's  ill-usage — sooner  than  your  honor- 
able logic,  after  all. 

Surf.  Then  by  this  hand,  which  he  is 
unworthy  of 

Enter  SERVANT. 

Sdeath,   you   blockhead,   what   do   you  want? 

Serv.  I  beg  your  pardon,  sir,  but  I 
thought  you  wouldn't  choose  Sir  Peter  to 
come  up  without  announcing  him? 

Surf.     Sir    Peter— Oons— the   devil! 

Lady  Teas.  Sir  Peter!  O  Lud!  I'm  ruined! 
I'm  ruined! 

Serv.     Sir,  'twasn't  I  let  him  in. 

Lady  Teaz.  O,  I'm  undone !  what  will  be- 
come of  me  now,  Mr.  Logic?— Oh!  mercy, 
he's  on  the  stairs — I'll  get  behind  here — and 

if   ever  I'm   so  imprudent  again 

[Goes  behind  the  screen — 

Surf.     Give  me  that— book! 

[Sits    down — SERVANT    pretends    to    adjust 
his  hair — 

Enter  SIR  PETER. 

Sir  Pet.  Aye — ever  improving  himself!— 
Mr.  Surface — 

Surf.  Oh!  my  dear  Sir  Peter— I  beg  your 
pardon — [Gaping  and  throws  away  the  book.'] 
I  have  been  dozing  over  a  stupid  book !  well — 
I  am  much  obliged  to  you  for  this  call.  You 
haven't  been  here,  I  believe,  since  I  fitted 
up  this  room.  Books  you  know  are  the  only 
things  I  am  a  coxcomb  in. 

Sir  Pet.  'Tis  very  neat  indeed;  well,  well, 
that's  proper— and  you  make  even  your 


420 


ACT  IV,  Sc.  III. 


screen  a  source  of  knowledge — hung  I  per- 
ceive with  maps— 

Surf.  O  yes — I  find  great  use  in  that 
screen. 

Sir  Pet.  I  dare  say  you  must;  certainly, 
when  you  want  to  find  out  anything  in  a 
hurry. 

Surf.  Aye  or  to  hide  anything  in  a  hurry 
either. 

Sir  Pet.  Well,  I  have  a  little  private 
business— if  we  were  alone — 

Surf.     You    needn't    stay. 

Serv.     No,    sir.'  [Exit    SERVANT. 

Surf.     Here's  a  chair,  Sir  Peter,  I  beg 

Sif  Pet.  Well,  now  we  are  alone,  there 
is  a  subject,  my  dear  friend,  on  which  I 
wish  to  unburthen  my  mind  to  you — a  point 
of  the  greatest  moment  to  my  peace — in 
short,  my  good  friend — Lady  Teazle's  con- 
duct of  late  has  made  me  very  unhappy. 

Surf.     Indeed,    I'm    very    sorry    to    hear   it. 

Sir  Pet.  Yes,  'tis  but  too  plain  she  has 
not  the  least  regard  for  me — but  what's 
worse,  I  have  pretty  good  authority  to  sus- 
pect that  she  must  have  formed  an  attach- 
ment to  another. 

Surf.     Indeed!    you    astonish    me. 

Sir  Pet.  Yes — and  between  ourselves — I 
think  I  have  discovered  the  person. 

Surf.     How — you    alarm    me    exceedingly! 

Sir  Pet.  Ah!  my  dear  friend,  I  knew  you 
would  sympathize  with  me. 

Surf.  Yes — believe  me,  Sir  Peter — such  a 
discovery  would  hurt  me  just  as  much  as  it 
would  you — 

Si >•  Pet.  I  am  convinced  of  it;  ah,  it  is 
a  happiness  to  have  a  friend  whom  one  can 
trust  even  with  one's  family  secrets.  But 
have  you  no  guess  who  I  mean? 

Surf.  I  haven't  the  most  distant  idea; 
it  can't  be  Sir  Benjamin  Backbite. 

Sir  Pet.     O,  no.    What  say  you  to  Charles  ? 

Surf.  My  brother — impossible! — O  no,  Sir 
Peter,  you  mustn't  credit  the  scandalous  in- 
sinuations you  hear — no,  no; — Charles  to  be 
sure  has  been  charged  with  many  things, 
but  I  can  never  think  he  would  meditate  so 
gross  an  injury. 

Sir  Pet.  Ah!  my  dear  friend,  the  good- 
ness of  your  own  heart  misleads  you — you 
judge  of  others  by  yourself. 

Surf.  Certainly,  Sir  Peter,  the  heart  that 
is  conscious  of  its  own  integrity  is  ever 
slowest  to  credit  another's  treachery. 

Sir  Pet.  True — but  your  brother  has  no 
sentiment — you  never  hear  him  talk  so. 

Surf.  Well,  there  certainly  is  no  know- 
ing what  men  are  capable  of — no— there  is 
no  knowing — yet  I  can't  but  think  Lady 
Teazle  herself  has  too  much  principle. 

.Sir  Pet.  Aye,  but  what's  principle  against 
the  flattery  of  a  handsome,  lively  young 
fellow? 


Surf.     That's    very    true. 

Sir  Pet.  And  then  you  know  the  differ- 
ence of  our  ages  makes  it  very  improbable 
that  she  should  have  any  great  affection 
for  me — and  if  she  were  to  be  frail  and  I 
were  to  make  it  public — why,  the  town  would 
only  laugh  at  the  foolish  old  bachelor,  who 
had  married  a  girl. 

Surf.  That's  true;  to  be  sure  people  would 
laugh. 

Sir'  Pet.  Laugh— aye,  and  make  ballads 
and  paragraphs  and  the  devil  knows  what 
of  me. 

Surf.  No,  you  must  never  make  it 
public. 

Sir  Pet.  But  then  again  that  the  nephew 
of  my  old  friend,  Sir  Oliver,  should  be  the 
person  to  attempt  such  an  injury — hurts  me 
more  nearly. 

Surf.  Undoubtedly;  when  Ingratitude 
barbs  the  dart  of  Injury,  the  wound  has 
double  danger  in  it. 

Sir  Pet.  Aye,  I  that  was  in  a  manner 
left  his  guardian— in  [whose]  house  he  had 
been  so  often  entertained — who  never  in  my 
life  denied  him  my  advice — 

Surf.  O,  'tis  not  to  be  credited.  There 
may  be  a  man  capable  of  such  baseness,  to 
be  sure — but  for  my  part  till  you  can  give 
me  positive  proofs  you  must  excuse  me 
withholding  my  belief.  However,  if  this 
should  be  proved  on  him,  he  is  no  longer  a 
brother  of  mine,  I  disclaim  kindred  with  him 
— for  the  man  who  can  break  thro*  the  laws 
of  hospitality  and  attempt  the  wife  of  his 
friend  deserves  to  be  branded  as  the  pest  of 
society. 

Sir  Pet.  What  a  difference  there  is  be- 
tween you !  what  noble  sentiments ! 

Surf.  But  I  cannot  suspect  Lady  Teazle's 
honor. 

Sir  Pet.  I'm  sure  I  wish  to  think  well  of 
her  and  to  remove  all  ground  of  quarrel  be- 
tween us.  She  has  lately  reproached  me  more 
than  once  with  having  made  no  settlement 
on  her,  and,  in  our  last  quarrel,  she  almost 
hinted  that  she  should  not  break  her  heart 
if  I  was  dead.  Now  as  we  seem  to  differ 
in  our  ideas  of  expense,  I  have  resolved  she 
shall  be  her  own  mistress  in  that  respect  for 
the  future;  and  if  I  were  to  die,  she  shall 
find  that  I  have  not  been  inattentive  to  her 
interests  while  living.  Here,  my  friend,  are 
the  draughts  of  two  deeds  which  I  wish  to 
have  your  opinion  on:  by  one  she  will  enjoy 
eight  hundred  a  year  independent  while  I 
live,  and  by  the  other  the  bulk  of  my  for- 
tune after  my  death. 

.Surf.  This  conduct,  Sir  Peter,  is  indeed 
truly  generous!  I  wish  it  may  not  corrupt 
my  pupil.  [Aside. 

Sir  Pet.  Yes,  I  am  determined  she  shall 
have  no  cause  to  complain,  tho'  I  would  not 


421 


ACT  IV,  Sc.  III. 


THE  SCHOOL  FOR  SCANDAL 


have  her  acquainted  with  the  latter  instance 
of  my  affection  yet  awhile. 

Surf.     Nor  I — if  I  could  help  it. 

Sir  Pet.  And  now,  my  dear  friend,  if  you 
please,  we  will  talk  over  the  situation  of 
your  hopes  with  Maria. 

Surf.  No,  no,  Sir  Peter,— another  time  if 
you  please — [softly.] 

Sir  Pet.  I  am  sensibly  chagrined  at  the 
little  progress  you  seem  to  make  in  her 
affection. 

Surf.  I  beg  you  will  not  mention  it. 
What  are  my  disappointments  when  your 
happiness  is  in  debate  [softly],  'Sdeath,  I 
shall  be  ruined  every  way. 

Sir  Pet.  And  tho'  you  are  so  averse  to 
my  acquainting  Lady  Teazle  with  your  pas- 
sion, I  am  sure  she's  not  your  enemy  in  the 
affair. 

Surf.  Pray,  Sir  Peter,  now  oblige  me.  I 
am  really  too  much  affected  by  the  subject 
we  have  been  speaking  of  to  bestow  a 
thought  on  my  own  concerns.  The  man  who 
is  entrusted  with  his  friend's  distresses  can 
never 

Enter  SERVANT. 

Well,   sir? 

Serv.  Your  brother,  sir,  is  speaking  to 
a  gentleman  in  the  street,  and  says  he  knows 
you're  within. 

Surf.  'Sdeath,  blockhead,  I'm  not  within, — 
I'm  out  'for  the  day. 

Sir  Pet.  Stay— hold— a  thought  has  struck 
me;  you  shall  be  at  home. 

Surf.  Well— well— let  him  up.— [Exit  SERV.] 
He'll  interrupt  Sir  Peter,  however.  [Aside. 

Sir  Pet.  Now,  my  good  friend,  oblige  me 
I  intreat  you— before  Charles  comes — let  me 
conceal  myself  somewhere — then  do  you  tax 
him  on  the  point  we  have  been  talking  on, 
and  his  answers  may  satisfy  me  at  once. 

Surf.  O,  fie,  Sir  Peter,  would  you  have 
me  join  in  so  mean  a  trick?  to  trepan  my 
brother  too? 

Sir  Pet.  Nay,  you  tell  me  you  are  sure 
he  is  innocent; — if  so,  you  do  him  the  great- 
est service  in  giving  him  an  opportunity 
to  clear  himself,  and  you  will  set  my  heart 
at  rest.  Come,  you  shall  not  refuse  me — 
here  behind  this  screen  will  be — hey !  what 
the  devil — there  seems  to  be  one  listener 
here  already; — I'll  swear  I  saw  a  petti- 
coat.— 

Surf.  Ha!  ha!  ha!  Well,  this  is  ridiculous 
enough — I'll  tell  you,  Sir  Peter — though  I 
hold  a  man  of  intrigue  to  be  a  most  des- 
picable character,  yet  you  know  it  doesn't 
follow  that  a  man  is  to  be  an  absolute 
Joseph  either;— harkee,  'tis  a  little  French 
milliner — a  silly  rogue  that  plagues  me — 
and  having  some  character,  on  your  coming 
she  ran  behind  the  screen. 


Sir  Pet.  Ah,  a  rogue— but  'egad  she  has 
overheard  all  I  have  been  saying  of  my 
wife. 

Surf.  O  'twill  never  go  any  farther,  you 
may  depend  on't. 

Sir  Pet.  No!— then,  efaith,  let  her  hear 
it  out. — Here's  a  closet  will  do  as  well. 

Surf.     Well,   go   in  there. 

Sir  Pet.     Sly  rogue — sly  rogue. 

Surf.  Gad's  my  life,  what  an  escape!  and 
a  curious  situation  I'm  in! — to  part  man  and 
wife  in  this  manner. 

Lady  Teas,  [peeps  out.]  Couldn't  I  steal 
off? 

Surf.     Keep   close,   my   angel! 

Sir  Pet.  [Peeping  out.]  Joseph,  tax  him 
home. 

Surf.     Back — my  dear  friend. 

Lady  Teas.  [Peeping  out.]  Couldn't  you 
lock  Sir  Peter  in?— 

Surf.     Be    still— my    life! 

Sir  Pet.  [Peeping.]  You're  sure  the  little 
milliner  won't  blab? 

Surf.  In!  in!  my  good  Sir  Peter— 'For* 
Gad,  I  wish  I  had  a  key  to  the  door. 

Enter   CHARLES. 

Chas.  Hollo!  brother— what  has  been  the 
matter?  your  fellow  wouldn't  let  me  up  at 
first — What!  have  you  had  a  Jew  or  a 
wench  with  you  ? 

Surf.     Neither,  brother,  I   assure  you. 

Chas.  But— what  has  made  Sir  Peter  steal 
off?  I  thought  he  had  been  with  you— 

Surf.  He  was,  brother,  but  hearing  you 
were  coming  he  didn't  choose  to  stay. 

Chas.  What!  was  the  old  gentleman 
afraid  I  wanted  to  borrow  money  of  him? 

Surf.  No,  sir,  but  I  am  sorry  to  find, 
Charles,  you  have  lately  given  that  worthy 
man  grounds  for  great  uneasiness. 

Chas.  Yes,  they  tell  me  I  do  that  to  a 
great  many  worthy  men; — but  how  so,  pray? 

Surf.  To  be  plain  with  you,  brother,  he 
thinks  you  are  endeavoring  to  gain  Lady 
Teazle's  affections  from  him. 

Chas.  Who,  I?— O  Lud!  not  I  upon  my 
word. — Ha!  ha!  ha!  so  the  old  fellow  has 
found  out  that  he  has  got  a  young  wife,  has 
he?  or  what's  worse  she  has  discovered  that 
she  has  an  old  husband? 

Surf.  This  is  no  subject  to  jest  on, 
brother.  He  who  can  laugh 

Chas.  True,  true,  as  you  were  going  to 
say— then  seriously  I  never  had  the  least 
idea  of  what  you  charge  me  with,  upon  my 
honor. 

Surf.  Well,  it  will  give  Sir  Peter  great 
satisfaction  to  hear  this. 

Chas.  [Aloud.]  To  be  sure,  I  once  thought 
the  lady  seemed  to  have  taken  a  fancy— but 
upon  my  soul  I  never  gave  her  the  least 


422 


ACT  IV,  Sc.  III. 


encouragement. — Besides  you  know  my  at- 
tachment to  Maria — 

Surf.  But  sure,  brother,  even  if  Lady 
Teazle  had  betrayed  the  fondest  partiality 
for  you 

Chas.  Why — look'ee,  Joseph— I  hope  I  shall 
never  deliberately  do  a  dishonorable  action 
• — but  if  a  pretty  woman  was  purposely  to 
throw  herself  in  my  way — and  that  pretty 
woman  married  to  a  man  old  enough  to  be 
her  father 

Surf.     Well  ? 

Chas.  Why  I  believe  I  should  be  obliged 
to  borrow  a  little  of  your  morality,  that's 
all.  But,  brother,  do  yon  know  now  that 
you  surprise  me  exceedingly  by  naming  me 
with  Lady  Teazle — for  faith  I  always  under- 
stood you  were  her  favorite — 

Surf.  O  for  shame!  Charles.  This  retort 
is  foolish. 

Chas.  Nay,  I  swear  I  have  seen  you  ex- 
change such  significant  glances 

Surf.     Nay — nay — sir — this  is  no  jest — 

Chas.  Egad,  I'm  serious.  Don't  you  re- 
member one  day,  when  I  called  here? 

Surf.     Nay — prithee — Charles — 

Chas.     And    found    you    together 

Surf.     Zounds,  sir,  I  insist 

Chas.  And  another  time  when  your  serv- 
ant  

Surf.  Brother,  brother,  a  word  with  you 
— Gad,  I  must  stop  him —  [Aside. 

Chas.     Informed  me   that 

Surf.  Hush!— I  beg  your  pardon,  but  Sir 
Peter  has  overheard  all  we  have  been  say- 
ing; I  knew  you  would  clear  yourself,  or  I 
shouldn't  have  consented — 

Chas.     How?     Sir  Peter?— Where  is   he? 

Surf.     Softly,  there!     [Points  to  the  closet. 

Chas.  In  the  closet!  O  'fore  Heaven,  I'll 
have  him  out! — Sir  Peter,  come  forth! 

Surf.     No— no 

Chas.  I  say,  Sir  Peter — come  into  court. 
— [Pulls  in  SIR  PETER.]  What — my  old  guard- 
ian— what!  turn  inquisitor  and  take  evi- 
dence incog. — 

Sir  Pet.  Give  me  your  hand,  Charles;  I 
believe  I  have  suspected  you  wrongfully; 
but  you  mustn't  be  angry  with  Joseph — 'twas 
my  plan — 

Chas.     Indeed! 

Sir  Pet.  But  I  acquit  you;  I  promise  you 
I  don't  think  near  so  ill  of  you  as  I  did. 
What  I  have  heard  has  given  me  great 
satisfaction. 

Chas.  Egad,  then  'twas  lucky  you  didn't 
hear  any  more,  wasn't  it,  Joseph? 

Sir  Pet.  Ah!  you  would  have  retorted  on 
him. 

Chas.     Aye — aye — that   was   a   joke. 

Sir  Pet.  Yes,  yes,  I  know  his  honor  too 
well. 

Chas.     Yet   you    might   as    well    have    sus- 


pected him  as  me  in  this  matter,  for  all  that, 
mightn't  he,  Joseph? 

Sir  Pet.     Well,  well,  I  believe  you. 

Surf.  Would  they  were  both  out  of  the 
room! 

Enter  SERVANT,  whispers  SURFACE. 

Sir  Pet.  And  in  future  perhaps  we  may 
not  be  such  strangers. 

Surf.  Gentlemen— I  beg  pardon — I  must 
wait  on  you  downstairs, — here  is  a  person 
come  on  particular  business 

Chas.  Well,  you  can  see  him  in  another 
room;  Sir  Peter  and  I  haven't  met  a  long 
time  and  I  have  something  to  say  to  him. 

Surf.     They    must    not    be    left    together. — 

I'll  send  this  man  away  and  return  directly — 

[SURFACE  goes   out. 

Sir  Pet.  Ah,  Charles,  if  you  associated 
more  with  your  brother,  one  might  indeed 
hope  for  your  reformation.  He  is  a  man  of 
sentiment.  Well!  there  is  nothing  in  the 
world  so  noble  as  a  man  of  sentiment! 

Chas.  Pshaw!  he  is  too  moral  by  half, 
and  so  apprehensive  of  his  good  name,  ::s  he 
calls  it,  that  I  suppose  he  would  as  soon 
let  a  priest  in  his  house  as  a  girl. 

Sir  Pet.  No,  no,  come,  come,  you  wrong 
him.  No,  no,  Joseph  is  no  rake  but  he  is  no 
such  saint  in  that  respect  either.  I  have  a 
great  mind  to  tell  him — we  should  have  such 
a  laugh! 

Chas.  Oh,  hang  him!  He's  a  very  an- 
chorite— a  young  hermit. 

Sir  Pet.  Harkee,  you  must  not  abuse 
him,  he  may  chance  to  hear  of  it  again,  I 
promise  you. 

Chas.     Why,    you   won't   tell    him? 

Sir  Pet.  No— but— this  way.  Egad,  I'll 
tell  him. — Harkee,  have  you  a  mind  to  have 
a  good  laugh  against  Joseph? 

Chas.     I   should    like   it   of   all   things. 

Sir  Pet.  Then,  E'faith,  we  will— I'll  be 
quit  with  him  for  discovering  me. — He  had  a 
girl  with  him  when  I  called.  [Whispers. 

Chas.     What!    Joseph!    you    jest. 

Sir  Pet.  Hush!— a  little  French  milliner— 
and  the  best  of  the  jest  is— she's  in  the 
room  now. 

Chas.     The  devil  she  is! 

Sir   Pet.     Hush!    I    tell    you.  [Points. 

Chas.  Behind  the  screen!  Odds  life,  let's 
unveil  her ! 

Sir  Pet.  No — no!  he's  coming — you  shan't 
indeed! 

Chas.  Oh,  egad,  we'll  have  a  peep  at  the 
little  milliner ! 

Sir  Pet.  Not  for  the  world— Joseph  will 
never  forgive  me. 

Chas.     I.'ll  stand  by  you 

Sir  Pet.  Odds  life!  Here  he's  coming— 
[SURFACE  enters  just  as  CHARLES  throws 
down  the  screen. 


423 


ACT  V,  Sc.  I. 


THE  SCHOOL  FOR  SCANDAL 


Re-enter  JOSEPH  SURFACE. 

Clias.  Lady  Teazle!  by  all  that's  wonder- 
ful! 

Sir  Pet.  Lady  Teazle!  by  all  that's  hor- 
rible! 

Chas.  Sir  Peter,  this  is  one  of  the  smart- 
est French  milliners  I  ever  saw!— Egad,  yon 
seem  all  to  have  been  diverting  yourselves 
here  at  hide  and  seek— and  I  don't  see  who 
is  out  of  the  secret! — Shall  I  beg  your  lady- 
ship to  inform  me?— Not  a  word '.—Brother !— 
will  you  please  to  explain  this  matter  ?  What ! 
is  Honesty  dumb  too?— Sir  Peter,  though  I 
found  you  in  the  dark — perhaps  you  are  not 
so  now— all  mute?  Well  tho'  I  can  make 
nothing  of  the  affair,  I  make  no  doubt  but 
you  perfectly  understand  one  another,— so 
I'll  leave  you  to  yourselves. — [Going.'} 
Brother,  I'm  sorry  to  find  you  have  given 
that  worthy  man  grounds  for  so  much  un- 
easiness!— Sir  Peter — there's  nothing  in  the 
world  so  noble  as  a  man  of  sentiment! — 

[Stand   for   some    time  looking   at   one   an- 
other.    Exit  CHARLES. 

Surf.  Sir  Peter— notwithstanding  I  con- 
fess that  appearances  are  against  me,  if  you 
will  afford  me  your  patience,  I  make  no 
doubt  but  I  shall  explain  everything  to  your 
satisfaction. 

Sir  Pet.     If    you    please— sir — 

Surf.  The  fact  is,  sir— that  Lady  Teazle 
knowing  my  pretensions  to  your  ward  Maria 
— I  say,  sir,  Lady  Teazle — being  apprehen- 
sive of  the  jealousy  of  your  temper — and 
knowing  my  friendship  to  the  family, — she, 
sir — I  say  called  here — in  order  that  I  might 
explain  those  pretensions — but  on  your  com- 
ing being  apprehensive — as  I  said,  of  your 
jealousy— she  withdrew — and  this,  you  may 
depend  on't,  is  the  whole  truth  of  the  mat- 
ter. 

Sir  Pet.  A  very  clear  account  upon  my 
word  and  I  dare  swear  the  lady  will  vouch 
for  every  article  of  it. 

Lady   Teaz.     For   not    one   word   of   it,   Sir 
Peter- 
Sir   Pet.     How!   don't   you   think   it   worth 
while    to  agree   in   the   lie? 

Lady  Teaz.  There  is  not  one  syllable  of 
truth  in  what  that  gentleman  has  told  you. 

Sir  Pet.  I  believe  you  upon  my  soul, 
ma'am — 

Surf.  'Sdeath,  madam,  will  you  betray 
me !  [Aside. 

Lady  Teaz.  Good  Mr.  Hypocrite,  by  your 
leave  I  will  speak  for  myself. 

Sir  Pet.  Aye,  let  her  alone,  sir — you'll 
find  she'll  make  out  a  better  story  than  you 
without  prompting. 

Lady  Teaz.  Hear  me,  Sir  Peter.  I  came 
hither  on  no  matter  relating  to  your  ward 
and  even  ignorant  of  this  gentleman's  pre- 


tensions to  her — but  I  came — seduced  by  his 
insidious  arguments  and  pretended  pas- 
sion— at  least  to  listen  to  his  dishonorable 
love  if  not  to  sacrifice  your  honor  to  his 
baseness. 

Sir  Pet.  Now,  I  believe,  the  truth  is  com- 
ing indeed. 

Surf.     The    woman's    mad — 

Lady  Teaz.  No,  sir,  she  has  recovered  her 
senses.  Your  own  arts  have  furnished  her 
with  the  means.  Sir  Peter— I  do  not  expect 
you  to  credit  me — but  the  tenderness  you 
expressed  for  me,  when  I  am  sure  you  could 
not  think  I  was  a  witness  to  it,  has  pene- 
trated so  to  my  heart  that  had  I  left  the 
place  without  the  shame  of  this  discovery, 
my  future  life  should  have  spoken  the  sin- 
cerity of  my  gratitude;— as  for  that  smooth- 
tongued hypocrite,  who  would  have  seduced 
the  wife  of  his  too  credulous  friend  while  he 
pretended  honorable  addresses  to  his  ward, 
I  behold  him  now  in  a  light  so  truly  despi- 
cable that  I  shall  never  again  respect  myself 
for-  having  listened  to  him.  [Exit. 

Surf.  Notwithstanding  all  this,  Sir  Peter 
— Heaven  knows 

Sir  Pet.  That  you  are  a  villain!— and  so 
I  leave  you  to  your  conscience. 

Surf.  You  are  too  rash,  Sir  Peter— you 
sliall  hear  me. — The  man  who  shuts  out  con- 
viction by  refusing  to 

[Exeunt,    SURFACE  following  and   speaking. 

ACT  V 

SCENE    I 

The  Library. 

Enter  SURFACE  and  SERVANT. 

Surf.  Mr.  Stanley!  and  why  should  you 
think  I  would  see  him? — you  must  know  he 
came  to  ask  something! 

Serv.  Sir,  I  shouldn't  have  let  him  in  but 
that  Mr.  Rowley  came  to  the  door  with  him. 

Surf.  Pshaw !— Blockhead  to  suppose  that 
I  should  now  be  in  a  temper  to  receive  visits 
from  poor  relations ! — well,  why  don't  you 
show  the  fellow  up? 

Serv.  I  will,  sir!  why,  sir,  it  was  not 
my  fault  that  Sir  Peter  discovered  my 
lady 

Surf.  Go,  fool!  [Exit  SERV.]  Sure  For- 
tune never  played  a  man  of  my  policy  such 
a  trick  before — my  character  with  Sir  Peter! 
— my  hopes  with  Maria! — destroyed  in  a  mo- 
ment! I'm  in  a  rare  humor  to  listen  to 
other  people's  distresses!  I  shan't  be  able 
to  bestow  even  a  benevolent  sentiment  on 
Stanley. — So !  here  he  comes  and  Rowley  with 
him — I  must  try  to  recover  myself,  and  put 
a  little  charity  into  my  face  however.  [Exit. 


424 


THE  SCHOOL  FOR  SCANDAL 


ACT  V,  Sc.  I. 


Enter   SIR   OLIVER   and   ROWLEY. 

Sir  Oliv.  What!  does  he  avoid  us?  that 
was  he,  was  it  not? 

Row.  It  was,  sir,  but  I  doubt  you  are 
come  a  little  too  abruptly— his  nerves  are 
so  weak  that  the  sight  of  a  poor  relation 
may  be  too  much  for  him — I  should  have 
gone  first  to  break  you  to  him. 

Sir  Oliv.  A  plague  of  his  nerves!  yet  this 
is  he  whom  Sir  Peter  extols  as  a  man  of  the 
most  benevolent  way  of  thinking! 

Row.  As  to  his  way  of  thinking— I  can't 
pretend  to  decide,  for,  to  do  him  justice,  he 
appears  to  have  as  much  speculative  benevo- 
lence as  any  private  gentleman  in  the  king- 
dom— though  he  is  seldom  so  sensual  as  to 
indulge  himself  in  the  exercise  of  it. 

Sir  Oliv.  Yet  he  has  a  string  of  charitable 
sentiments,  I  suppose,  at  his  fingers'  ends! 

Row.  Or  rather  at  his  tongue's  end,  Sir 
Oliver;  for  I  believe  there  is  no  sentiment 
he  has  more  faith  in  than  that  '  charity  be- 
gins at  home.' 

Sir  Oliv.  And  his  I  presume  is  of  that 
domestic  sort  which  never  stirs  abroad  at  all. 

Row.  I  doubt  you'll  find  it  so — but  he's 
coming— I  mustn't  seem  to  interrupt  you — 
and  you  know  immediately,  as  you  leave 
him,  I  come  in  to  announce  your  arrival  in 
your  real  character. 

Sir  Oliv.  True,  and  afterwards  you'll  meet 
me  at  Sir  Peter's 

Row.     Without  losing  a  moment.          [Exit. 

Sir  Oliv.  So — I  see  he  has  premeditated  a 
denial  by  the  complaisance  of  his  features. 

Enter   SURFACE. 

Surf.  Sir,  I  beg  you  ten  thousand  par- 
dons for  keeping  you  a  moment  waiting — 
Mr.  Stanley — I  presume 

Sir  Oliv.     At  your  service. 

Surf.  Sir,  I  beg  you  will  do  me  the 
honor  to  sit  down— I  entreat  you,  sir. 

Sir  Oliv.  Dear  sir,  there's  no  occasion- 
too  civil  by  half! 

Surf.  I  have  not  the  pleasure  of  know- 
ing you,  Mr.  Stanley,  but  I  am  extremely 
happy  to  see  you  look  so  well;  you  were 
nearly  related  to  my  mother,  I  think,  Mr. 
Stanley. 

Sir  Oliv.  I  was,  sir,  so  nearly  that  my 
present  poverty,  I  fear,  may  do  discredit  to 
her  wealthy  children,  else  I  should  not  have 
presumed  to  trouble  you. 

Surf.  Dear  sir,  there  needs  no  apology; 
he  that  is  in  distress,  tho*  a  stranger,  has  a 
right  to  claim  kindred  with  the  wealthy.  I 
am  sure  I  wish  I  was  of  that  class,  and  had 
it  in  my  power  to  offer  you  even  a  small 
relief. 

Sir  Oliv.  If  your  uncle,  Sir  Oliver,  were 
here,  I  should  have  a  friend 


Surf.  I  wish  he  was,  sir,  with  all  my 
heart— you  should  not  want  an  advocate  with 
him,  believe  me,  sir. 

Sir  Oliv.  I  should  not  need  one — my  dis- 
tresses would  recommend  me.  But  I 
imagined  his  bounty  had  enabled  you  to  be- 
come the  agent  of  his  charity. 

Surf.  My  dear  sir,  you  are  strangely 
misinformed.  Sir  Oliver  is  a  worthy  man, 
a  worthy  man — a  very  worthy  sort  of  man; 
but  avarice,  Mr.  Stanley,  is  the  vice  of  age — 
I  will  tell  you,  my  good  sir,  in  confidence:— 
what  he  has  done  for  me  has  been  a  mere — 
nothing;  tho'  people,  I  know,  have  thought 
otherwise,  and  for  my  part  I  never  chose  to 
contradict  the  report. 

Sir  Oliv.  What! — has  he  never  trans- 
mitted you  bullion — rupees — pagodas? 

Surf.  O  dear  sir,  nothing  of  the  kind! 
no,  no — a  few  presents  now  and  then — china, 
shawls,  congo  tea,  avadavats,  and  Indian 
crackers,  little  more,  believe  me. 

Sir  Oliv.  Here's  gratitude  for  twelve 
thousand  pounds! — avadavats  and  Indian 
crackers. 

Surf.  Then,  my  dear  sir,  you  have  heard, 
I  doubt  not,  of  the  extravagance  of  my 
brother.  Sir,  there  are  very  few  would 
credit  what  I  have  done  for  that  unfortunate 
young  man. 

Sir   Oliv.     Not   I    for   one! 

Surf.  The  sums  I  have  lent  him!  Indeed, 
I  have  been  exceedingly  to  blame— it  was  an 
amiable  weakness!  however,  I  don't  pretend 
to  defend  it;  and  now  I  feel  it  doubly  cul- 
pable, since  it  has  deprived  me  of  the  power 
of  serving  you,  Mr.  Stanley,  as  my  heart 
directs 

Sir  Oliv.  Dissembler!  Then,  sir,  you 
cannot  assist  me? 

Surf.  At  present  it  grieves  me  to  say  I 
cannot — but  whenever  I  have  the  ability,  you 
may  depend  upon  hearing  from  me. 

Sir  Oliv.     1  am  extremely  sorry 

Surf.  Not  more  than  I  am,  believe  me;  to 
pity  without  the  power  to  relieve  is  still 
more  painful  than  to  ask  and  be  denied. 

Sir  Oliv.  Kind  sir,  your  most  obedient, 
humble  servant. 

Surf.  You  leave  me  deeply  affected,  Mr. 
Stanley;  William,  be  ready  to  open  the 
door. 

Sir  Oliv.     O,  dear  sir,  no  ceremony 

Surf.     Your  very  obedient 

Sir    Oliv.     Your    most    obsequious 

Surf.  You  may  depend  on  hearing  from 
me  whenever  I  can  be  of  service 

Sir  Oliv.     Sweet  sir,  you   are   too   good 

Surf.  In  the  mean  time  I  wish  you  health 
and  spirits 

Sir  Oliv.  Your  ever  grateful  and  perpetual 
humble  servant 

Surf.     Sir,   yours  as   sincerely 


425 


ACT  V,  Sc.  II. 


THE  SCHOOL  FOR  SCANDAL 


Sir   Oliv.     Charles! — you  are   my   heir. 

[Exit. 

SURFACE,  solus. 

Sob!— This  is  one  bad  effect  of  a  good 
character — it  invites  applications  from  the 
unfortunate  and  there  needs  no  small  degree 
of  address  to  gain  the  reputation  of  benevo- 
lence without  incurring  the  expense.  The 
eilver  ore  of  pure  charity  is  an  expensive  ar- 
ticle in  the  catalogue  of  a  man's  good  quali- 
ties, whereas  the  sentimental  French  plate 
I  use  instead  of  it  makes  just  as  good  a 
show,  and  pays  no  tax. 

Enter  ROWLEY. 

Row.  Mr.  Surface,  your  servant.  I  was 
apprehensive  of  interrupting  you,  though 
my  business  demands  immediate  attention, 
as  this  note  will  inform  you. 

Surf.  Always  happy  to  see  Mr.  Rowley. 
How — Oliver — Surface !— My  uncle  arrived ! 

Row.  He  is  indeed — we  have  just  parted 
— quite  well — after  a  speedy  voyage — and  im- 
patient to  embrace  his  worthy  nephew. 

Surf.  I  am  astonished !— William !  stop 
Mr.  Stanley,  if  he's  not  gone. 

Row.     O — he's  out  of  reach,  I  believe. 

Surf.  Why  didn't  you  let  me  know  this 
when  you  came  in  together. 

Row.  I  thought  you  had  particular — 
business;  but  I  must  be  gone  to  inform  your 
brother,  and  appoint  him  here  to  meet  his 
uncle.  He  will  be  with  you  in  a  quarter  of 
an  hour. 

Surf.  So  he  says.  Well,  I  am  strangely 
overjoyed  at  his  coming — never  to  be  sure 
was  anything  so  damned  unlucky! 

Row.  You  will  be  delighted  to  see  how 
well  he  looks. 

Surf.  O,  I'm  rejoiced  to  hear  it — just  at 
this  time 

Row.  I'll  tell  him  how  impatiently  you 
expect  him. 

Surf.  Do — do — pray — give  my  best  duty 
and  affection — indeed,  I  cannot  express  the 
sensations  I  feel  at  the  thought  of  seeing 
him! — certainly  his  coming  just  at  this  time 

is    the   cruellest  piece  of   ill   fortune 

[Exeunt. 

SCENE    II 

At  SIR   PETER'S  House. 
Enter  MRS.   CANDOUR  and  SERVANT. 

Serv.  Indeed,  ma'am,  my  Lady  will  see 
nobody  at  present. 

Mrs.  Can.  Did  you  tell  her  it  was  her 
friend,  Mrs.  Candour? 

Serv.  Yes,  ma'am,  but  she  begs  you  will 
excuse  her. 

Mrs.  Can.     Do  go  again— I  shall  be  glad  to 


see  her  if  it  be  only  for  a  moment,  for  I  am 
sure  she  must  be  in  great  distress  [Exit 
MAID] — Dear  heart,  how  provoking !— I'm  not 
mistress  of  half  the  circumstances !— We 
shall  have  the  whole  affair  in  the  newspapers 
with  the  names  of  the  parties  at  length  be- 
fore I  have  dropt  the  story  at  a  dozen 
houses. 

Enter    SIR    BENJAMIN. 

Sir  Benjamin,  you  have  heard,  I  sup- 
pose  

Sir  Ben.  Of  Lady  Teazle  and  Mr.  Sur- 
face  

Mrs.    Can.     And    Sir    Peter's    discovery 

Sir  Ben.  O  the  strangest  piece  of  busi- 
ness to  be  sure 

Mrs.  Can.  Well,  I  never  was  so  surprised 
in  my  life! — am  so  sorry  for  all  parties — 
indeed. 

Sir  Ben.  Now,  I  don't  pity  Sir  Peter  at 
all;  he  was  so  extravagant — partial  to  Mr. 
Surface 

Mrs.  Can.  Mr.  Surface! — why,  'twas  with 
Charles  Lady  Teazle  was  detected. 

Sir  Ben.  No  such  thing!  Mr.  Surface  is 
the  gallant. 

Mrs.  Can.  No,  no,  Charles  is  the  man; 
'twas  Mr.  Surface  brought  Sir  Peter  on  pur- 
pose to  discover  them. 

Sir  Ben.     I  tell  you  I  have  it  from  one 

Mrs.  Can.     And  I  have  it  from  one 

Sir  Ben.  Who  had  it  from  one  who  had 
it 

Mrs.  Can.  From  one  immediately— but 
here  comes  Lady  Sneerwell — perhaps  she 
knows  the  whole  affair. 

Enter  LADY  SNEERWELL; 

Lady  Sneer.  So,  my  dear  Mrs.  Candour, 
here's  a  sad  affair  of  our  friend  Teazle. 

Mrs.  Can.  Aye,  my  dear  friend,  who  could 
have  thought  it? 

Lady  Sneer.  Well,  there  is  no  trusting  to 
appearances;  though,  indeed,  she  was  al- 
ways too  lively  for  me. 

Mrs.  Can.  To  be  sure,  her  manners  were 
a  little  too  free — but  she  was  very 
young 

Lady  Sneer.  And  had  indeed  some  good 
qualities. 

Mrs.  Can.  So  she  had  indeed — but  have 
you  heard  the  particulars? 

Lady  Sneer.  No,  but  everybody  says  that 
Mr.  Surface 

Sir  Ben.  Aye,  there  I  told  you — Mr.  Sur- 
face was  the  man. 

Mrs.  Can.  No,  no,  indeed  the  assignation 
was  with  Charles 

Lady  Sneer.  With  Charles!— You  alarm 
me,  Mrs.  Candour ! 

Mrs.  Can.  Yes,  yes,  he  was  the  lover; 
Mr.  Surface — do  him  justice — was  only  the 
informer. 


426 


THE  SCHOOL  FOR  SCANDAL 


ACT  V,  Sc.  II. 


Sir  Ben.  Well,  I'll  not  dispute  with  you, 
Mrs.  Candour — but  be  it  which  it  may,  I 
hope  that  Sir  Peter's  wound  will  not 

Mrs.  Can.  Sir  Peter's  wound!  O  mercy! 
I  didn't  hear  a  word  of  their  fighting 

Lady  Sneer.     Nor  I  a  syllable! 

Sir  Ben.  No!  what  no  mention  of  the 
duel? 

Mrs.   Can.     Not  a  word — 

Sir  Ben.  O,  Lord,  yes,  yes,  they  fought 
before  they  left  the  room. 

Lady  Sneer.     Pray,  let  us  hear. 

Mrs.  Can.  Aye — do  oblige  us  with  the 
duel 

Sir  Ben.  '  Sir,'  says  Sir  Peter — immedi- 
ately after  the  discovery,  '  you  are  a  most 
ungrateful  fellow.' 

Mrs.  Can.     Aye  to  Charles 

Sir  Ben.  No,  no — to  Mr.  Surface — '  a  most 
ungrateful  fellow;  and  old  as  I  am,  sir,'  says 
he,  '  I  insist  on  immediate  satisfaction.' 

Mrs.  Can.  Aye,  that  must  have  been  to 
Charles,  for  'tis  very  unlikely  Mr.  Surface 
should  go  to  fight  in  his  own  house. 

Sir  Ben.  Gad's  life,  ma'am,  not  at  all — 
4  giving  me  immediate  satisfaction  ' — on  this, 
madam — Lady  Teazle  seeing  Sir  Peter  in 
such  danger — ran  out  of  the  room  in  strong 
hysterics — and  Charles  after  her  calling  out 
for  hartshorn  and  water!  Then,  madam, 
they  began  to  fight  with  swords 

Enter  CRABTREE. 

Crab.  With  pistols,  nephew,  I  have  it  from 
undoubted  authority. 

Mrs.  Can.  Oh,  Mr.  Crabtree,  then  it  is  all 
true 

Crab.  Too  true  indeed,  ma'am,  and  Sir 
Peter  dangerously  wounded 

Sir  Ben.  By  a  thrust  in  second — quite 
through  his  left  side. 

Crab.     By  a  bullet  lodged  in  the  thorax 

Mrs.  Can.  Mercy — on  me!  Poor  Sir 
Peter 

Crab.  Yes,  ma'am,  tho'  Charles  would 
have  avoided  the  matter  if  he  could 

Mrs.  Can.  I  knew  Charles  was  the  per- 
son  

Sir  Ben.  O  my  uncle,  I  see,  knows  nothing 
of  the  matter 

Crab.  But  Sir  Peter  taxed  him  with  the 
basest  ingratitude 

Sir    Ben.     That    I    told   you,    you    know 

Crab.  Do,  nephew,  let  me  speak— and  in- 
sisted on  immediate 

Sir  Ben.     Just   as   I    said 

Crab.  Odds  life!  Nephew,  allow  others  to 
know  something  too — A  pair  of  pistols  lay 
on  the  bureau— for  Mr.  Surface,  it  seems, 
had  come  home  the  night  before  late  from 
Salt-Hill  where  he  had  been  to  see  the 
Montem  with  a  friend,  who  has  a  son  at 


Eton— so  unluckily  the  pistols  were  left 
charged 

Sir  Ben.     I   heard   nothing   of   this 

Crab.  Sir  Peter  forced  Charles  to  take 
one  and  they  .fired — it  seems  pretty  nearly 
together— Charles's  shot  took  place  as  I  tell 
you,  and  Sir  Peter's  missed— but  what  is 
very  extraordinary  the  ball  struck  against 
a  little  bronze  Pliny  that  stood  over  the 
fire  place — grazed  out  of  the  window  at  a 
right  angle — and  wounded  the  postman,  who 
was  just  coming  to  the  door  with  a  double 
letter  from  Northamptonshire. 

Sir  Ben.  My  uncle's  account  is  more  cir« 
cumstantial,  I  must  confess,— but  I  believe 
mine  is  the  true  one  for  all  that. 

Lady  Sneer.  I  am  more  interested  in  this 
affair  than  they  imagine — and  must  have 
better  information. —  [Exit. 

Sir  Ben.  Ah!  Lady  Sneerwell's  alarm  is 
very  easily  accounted  for. 

Crab.  Yes,  yes,  they  certainly  do  say — but 
that's  neither  here  nor  there. 

Mrs.  Can.  But  pray,  where  is  Sir  Peter 
at  present? 

Crab.  Oh!  they  brought  him  home  and 
he  is  now  in  the  house,  tho'  the  servants 
are  ordered  to  deny  it. 

Mrs.  Can.  I  believe  so— and  Lady  Teazle, 
I  suppose,  attending  him. 

Crab.  Yes,  yes,  and  I  saw  one  of  the 
Faculty  enter  just  before  me. 

Sir  Ben.     Hey,  who  comes  here? 

Crab.  Oh,  this  is  he,  the  physician,  de- 
pend on't. 

Mrs.  Can.  O  certainly,  it  must  be  ihe 
physician,  and  now  we  shall  know 

Enter  SIR  OLIVER. 

Crab.     Well,   Doctor,   what  hopes? 

Mrs.  Can.  Aye,  Doctor,  how's  your  pa- 
tient? 

Sir  Ben.  Now,  Doctor,  isn't  it  a  wound 
with  a  small  sword 

Crab.  A  bullet  lodged  in  the  thorax — for 
a  hundred! 

Sir  Oliv.  Doctor! — a  wound  with  a  small 
sword!  and  a  bullet  in  the  thorax! — Oons! 
are  you  mad,  good  people? 

Sir  Ben.  Perhaps,  sir,  you  are  not  a 
doctor. 

Sir  Oliv.  Truly,  sir,  I  am  to  thank  you 
for  my  degree  if  I  am. 

Crab.  Only  a  friend  of  Sir  Peter's,  then, 
I  presume;  but,  sir,  you  must  have  heard 
of  this  accident. 

Sir  Oliv.     Not  a  word! 

Crab.  Not  of  his  being  dangerously 
wounded  ? 

Sir  Oliv.     The  devil  he  is! 

Sir   Ben.     Run    thro*    the   body 

Crab.     Shot  in  the  breast 

Sir  Ben.     By  one  Mr.  Surface 


427 


ACT  V,  Sc.  II. 


THE  SCHOOL  FOR  SCANDAL 


Crab.     Aye,   the  younger. 

Sir  Olii:  Hey !  what  the  plague !  you  seem 
to  differ  strangely  in  your  accounts;  how- 
ever, you  agree  that  Sir  Peter  is  danger- 
ously wounded. 

Sir   Ben.     Oh   yes,   we   agree   in   that. 

Crab.  Yes,  yes,  I  believe  there  can  be  no 
doubt  in  that. 

Sir  OH-1.  Then,  upon  my  word,  for  a 
person  in  that  situation,  he  is  the  most 
imprudent  man  alive,  for  here  he  comes 
walking  as  if  nothing  at  all  was  the  matter. 

Enter  SIR  PETER. 

Odd's  heart,  Sir  Peter!  you  are  come  in 
good  time  I  promise  you,  for  we  had  just 
given  you  over ! 

Sir  Ben.  'Egad,  uncle,  this  is  the  most 
sudden  recovery! 

Sir  OH-'.  Why,  man,  what  do  you  do 
out  of  bed  with  a  small  sword  through  your 
body,  and  a  bullet  lodged  in  your  thorax? 

Sir  Pet.     A  small  sword  and  a  bullet — 

Sir  Olii'.  Aye,  these  gentlemen  would 
have  killed  you  without  law  or  physic,  and 
wanted  to  dub  me  a  doctor  to  make  me  an 
accomplice. 

Sir   Pet.     Why!   what    is   all   this? 

Sir  Ben.  We  rejoice,  Sir  Peter,  that  the 
story  of  the  duel  is  not  true — and  are  sin- 
cerely sorry  for  your  other  misfortune. 

Sir  Pet.  So,  so, — all  over  the  town  al- 
ready !  [Aside. 

Crab.  Though,  Sir  Peter,  you  were  cer- 
tainly vastly  to  blame  to  marry  at  all  at 
your  years. 

Sir  Pet.  Sir,  what  business  is  that  of 
yours  ? 

Mrs.  Can.  Though,  indeed,  as  Sir  Peter 
made  so  good  a  husband,  he's  very  much  to 
be  pitied. 

Sir  Pet.  Plague  on  your  pity,  ma'am,  I 
desire  none  of  it. 

Sir  Ben.  However,  Sir  Peter,  you  must 
not  mind  the  laughing  and  jests  you  will 
meet  with  on  the  occasion. 

Sir  Pet.  Sir,  I  desire  to  be  master  in  my 
own  house. 

Crab.  'Tis  no  uncommon  case,  that's  one 
comfort. 

Sir  Pet.  I  insist  on  being  left  to  myself, 
without  ceremony, — I  insist  on  your  leaving 
my  house  directly ! 

Mrs.  Can.  Well,  well,  we  are  going  and 
depend  on't,  we'll  make  the  best  report  of 
you  we  can. 

Sir   Pet.     Leave    my    house! 

Crab.  And  tell  how  hardly  you  have  been 
treated. 

Sir  Pet.     Leave   my   house — 

Sir  Ben.     And  how  patiently   you   bear   it. 

Sir  Pet.  Friends !  Vipers !  Furies !  Oh  that 
their  own  venom  would  choke  them! 


Sir  Oliv.  They  are  very  provoking  in- 
deed, Sir  Peter. 

Enter   ROWLEY. 

Row.  I  heard  high  words:  what  has  ruf- 
fled you,  Sir  Peter? 

Sir  Pet.  Pshaw!  what  signifies  asking- 
do  I  ever  pass  a  day  without  my  vexations? 

Sir  Olir.  Well,  I'm  not  inquisitive — I  come 
only  to  tell  you  that  I  have  seen  both  my 
nephews  in  the  manner  we  proposed. 

Sir  Pet.     A  precious  couple  they  are ! 

Row.  Yes,  and  Sir  Oliver  is  convinced 
that  your  judgment  was  right,  Sir  Peter. 

Sir  ('/'/:.  Yes,  I  find  Joseph  is  indeed  the 
man  after  all. 

Row.  Aye,  as  Sir  Peter  says,  he's  a  man 
of  sentiment. 

Sir  O/tV.  And  acts  up  to  the  sentiments 
he  professes. 

Row.  It  certainly  is  edification  to  hear 
him  talk. 

Sir  Oliv.  Oh,  he's  a  model  for  the  young 
men  of  the  age!  But  how's  this,  Sir  Peter? 
you  don't  join  us  in  your  friend  Joseph's 
praise  as  I  expected. 

Sir  Pet.  Sir  Oliver,  we  live  in  a  damned 
wicked  world,  and  the  fewer  we  praise  the 
better. 

Row.  What  do  you  say  so,  Sir  Peter,  who 
were  never  mistaken  in  your  life? 

Sir  Pet.  Pshaw!  Plague  on  you  both — I 
see  by  your  sneering  you  have  heard  the 
whole  affair— I  shall  go  mad  among  you! 

Row.  Then  to  fret  you  no  longer,  Sir 
Peter,  we  are  indeed  acquainted  with  it  all. 
I  met  Lady  Teazle  coming  from  Mr.  Surface's 
so  humbled  that  she  deigned  to  request  me 
to  be  her  advocate  with  you. 

Sir  Pet.  And  does  Sir  Oliver  know  all 
too? 

Sir    Oliv.     Every    circumstance! 

Sir  Pet.  What  of  the  closet  and  the 
screen — hey  ? 

Sir  Oliv.  Yes,  yes— and  the  little  French 
milliner.  Oh,  I  have  been  vastly  diverted 
with  the  story!  ha!  ha!  ha! 

Sir  Pet.     'Twas  very  pleasant! 

Sir  Olii'.  I  never  laughed  more  in  my 
life,  I  assure  you;  ha!  ha! 

Sir  Pet.     O  vastly  diverting!    Ha!  ha! 

Row.  To  be  sure,  Joseph  with  his  senti- 
ments! ha!  ha! 

Sir  Pet.  Yes,  his  sentiments!  ha!  ha!  a 
hypocritical  villain ! 

Sir  Olii'.  Aye,  and  that  rogue  Charles — 
to  pull  Sir  Peter  out  of  the  closet,  ha!  ha! 

Sir  Pet.  Ha!  ha!  'twas  devilish  enter- 
taining, to  be  sure. 

Sir  Oliv.  Ha!  ha!  Egad,  Sir  Peter,  I 
should  like  to  have  seen  your  face  when  the 
screen  was  thrown  down — ha !  ha ! 

Sir    Pet.     Yes,    my    face    when    the    screen 


428 


THE  SCHOOL  FOR  SCANDAL         ACT  V,  SCENE  LAST 


was  thrown  down:  ha!  ha!  ha!  O,  I  must 
never  show  my  head  again! 

Sir  OH:'.  But  come,  come,  it  isn't  fair  to 
laugh  at  you  neither,  my  old  friend,  tho' 
upon  my  soul  I  can't  help  it — 

Sir  Pet.  O  pray,  don't  restrain  your  mirth 
on  my  account:  it  does  not  hurt  me  at  all — 
I  laugh  at  the  whole  affair  myself. — Yes- 
yes — I  think  being  a  standing  jest  for  all 
one's  acquaintance  a  very  happy  situation — 

0  yes — and   then   of   a   morning   to   read   the 

paragraphs  about  Mr.  S ,  Lady  T ,  and 

Sir   P ,    will    be    so    entertaining!—!    shall 

certainly    leave    town    tomorrow    and    never 
look  mankind  in   the   face   again! 

Row.  Without  affectation,  Sir  Peter,  you 
may  despise  the  ridicule  of  fools.  But  I  see 
Lady  Teazle  going  towards  the  next  room— 

1  am   sure   you  must   desire   a  reconciliation 
as    earnestly    as    she    does. 

Sir  Oliv.  Perhaps  my  being  here  prevents 
her  coming  to  you;  well,  I'll  leave  honest 
Rowley  to  mediate  between  you;  but  he  must 
bring  you  all  presently  to  Mr.  Surface's — 
where  I  am  now  returning — if  not  to  reclaim 
a  libertine,  at  least  to  expose  hypocrisy. 

Sir  Pet.  Ah!  I'll  be  present  at  your  dis- 
covering yourself  there  with  all  my  heart; 
though  'tis  a  vile  unlucky  place  for  dis- 
coveries. 

Sir  Oliv.  However,  it  is  very  convenient 
to  the  carrying  on  of  my  plot  that  you  all 
live  so  near  one  another! 

{.Exit   SIR    OLIVER. 

Row.     We'll    follow— 

Sir  Pet.  She  is  not  coming  here,  you  see, 
Rowley — 

Row.  No,  but  she  has  left  the  door  of 
that  room  open  you  perceive. — See  she  is  in 
tears ! 

Sir  Pet.  She  seems  indeed  to  wish  I 
should  go  to  her.  How  dejected  she  ap- 
pears ! 

Row.  And  will  you  refrain  from  comfort- 
ing her? 

Sir  Pet.  Certainly,  a  little  mortification 
appears  very  becoming  in  a  wife.  Don't 
you  think  it  will  do  her  good  to  let  her 
pine  a  little? 

Row.     O,    this   is   ungenerous   in   you. 

Sir  Pet.  Well,  I  know  not  what  to  think. 
You  remember,  Rowley,  the  letter  I  found 
of  hers — evidently  intended  for  Charles  ? 

Row.  A  mere  forgery,  Sir  Peter,  laid  in 
your  way  on  purpose.  This  is  one  of  the 
points  which  I  intend  Snake  shall  give  you 
conviction  on. 

Sir  Pet.  I  wish  I  were  once  satisfied  of 
that.  She  looks  this  way what  a  remark- 
ably elegant  turn  of  the  head  she  has! 
Rowley,  I'll  go  to  her. 

Row.     Certainly— 

Sir  Pet.     Tho'   when  it   is   known    that   we 


are  reconciled,  people  will  laugh  at  me  ten 
times  more ! 

Row.  Let  them  laugh — and  retort  their 
malice  only  by  showing  them  you  are  happy 
in  spite  of  it. 

Sir  Pet.  Efaith,  so  I  will— and  if  I'm  not 
mistaken,  we  may  yet  be  the  happiest  couple 
in  the  country. 

Row.  Nay,  Sir  Peter,  he  who  once  lays 
aside  suspicion 

Sir  Pet.  Hold,  Master  Rowley,  if  you 
have  any  regard  for  me,  never  let  me  hear 
you  utter  anything  like  a  sentiment.  I 
have  had  enough  of  them  to  serve  me  the 
rest  of  my  life.  [Exeunt. 


SCENE  THE  LAST 

The  Library. 
SURFACE    and    LADY    SNEERWELL. 

Lady  Sneer.  Impossible!  will  not  Sir 
Peter  immediately  be  reconciled  to  Charles? 
and  of  consequence  no  longer  oppose  his 
union  with  Maria?  The  thought  is  distrac- 
tion to  me ! 

Surf.     Can    passion   furnish    a    remedy? 

Lady  Sneer.  No,  nor  cunning  either.  O 
I  was  a  fool,  an  idiot,  to  league  with  such 
a  blunderer ! 

Surf.  Surely,  Lady  Sneerwell,  I  am  the 
greatest  sufferer— yet  you  see  I  bear  the 
accident  with  calmness. 

Lady  Sneer.  Because  the  disappointment 
hasn't  reached  your  heart;  your  interest  only 
attached  you  to  Maria;  had  you  felt  for  her 
what  I  have  for  that  ungrateful  libertine, 
neither  your  temper  nor  hypocrisy  could 
prevent  your  showing  the  sharpness  of  your 
vexation. 

Surf.  But  why  should  your  reproaches 
fall  on  me  for  this  disappointment? 

Lady  Sneer.  Are  not  you  the  cause  of  it? 
what  had  you  to  bate  in  your  pursuit  of 
Maria  to  pervert  Lady  Teazle  by  the  way? — 
had  you  not  a  sufficient  field  for  your  roguery 
in  blinding  Sir  Peter  and  supplanting  your 
brother?  I  hate  such  an  avarice  of  crimes; 
'tis  an  unfair  monopoly  and  never  prospers. 

Surf.  Well,  I  admit  I  have  been  to  blame. 
I  confess  I  deviated  from  the  direct  road 
of  wrong,  but  I  don't  think  we're  so  totally 
defeated  neither. 

Lady  Sneer.     No! 

Surf.  You  tell  me  you  have  made  a  trial 
of  Snake  since  we  met — and  that  you  still 
believe  him  faithful  to  us. 

Lady  Sneer.     I  do  believe  so. 

Surf.  And  that  he  has  undertaken,  should 
it  be  necessary,  to  swear  and  prove  that 
Charles  is  at  this  time  contracted  by  vows 
and  honor  to  your  ladyship,  which  some  of 


429 


ACT  V,  SCENE  LAST          THE  SCHOOL  FOR  SCANDAL 


his  former  letters  to  you  will  serve  to  sup- 
port— 

Lady  Sneer.  This,  indeed,  might  have 
assisted — 

Surf.  Come,  come,  it  is  not  too  late  yet; 
but  hark!  this  is  probably  my  uncle,  Sir 
Oliver;  retire  to  that  room — we'll  consult 
further  when  he's  gone. 

Lady  Sneer.  Well,  but  if  lie  should  find 
you  out  too — 

Surf.  O,  I  have  no  fear  of  that— Sir  Peter 
will  hold  his  tongue  for  his  own  credit  sake 
— and  you  may  depend  on't,  I  shall  soon  dis- 
cover Sir  Oliver's  weak  side! — 

Lady  Sneer.  I  have  no  diffidence  of  your 
abilities — only  be  constant  to  one  roguery 
at  a  time.  [Exit. 

Surf.  I  will,  I  will.  So  'tis  confounded 
hard  after  such  bad  fortune,  to  be  baited  by 
one's  confederate  in  evil.  Well,  at  all  events 
my  character  is  so  much  better  than 
Charles's,  that  I  certainly— hey— what ! — this 
is  not  Sir  Oliver— but  old  Stanley  again!— 
Plague  on't,  that  he  should  return  to  teaze 
me  just  now;— I  shall  have  Sir  Oliver  come 
and  find  him  here — and 

Enter  SIR  OLIVER. 

Gad's  life,  Mr.  Stanley,  why  have  you  come 
back  to  plague  me  at  this  time?  you  must 
not  stay  now  upon  my  word! 

Sir  Oliv.  Sir,  I  hear  your  uncle  Oliver  is 
expected  here,  and  tho'  he  has  been  so 
penurious  to  you,  I'll  try  what  he'll  do 
for  me. 

Surf.  Sir!  'tis  impossible  for  you  to  stay 

now;  so  I  must  beg come  any  other  time 

and  I  promise  you,  you  shall  be  assisted. 

Sir  Oliv.  No— Sir  Oliver  and  I  must  be 
acquainted — 

Surf.  Zounds,  sir,  then  I  insist  on  your 
quitting  the  room  directly — 

Sir  Oliv.     Nay,  sir 

Surf.  Sir,  I  insist  on't.  Here,  William, 
show  this  gentleman  out.  Since  you  compel 
me,  sir — not  one  moment — this  is  such  in- 
solence. [Going  to  push  him  out. 

Enter  CHARLES. 

Chas.  Heyday!  what's  the  matter  now? 
what  the  devil  have  you  got  hold  of  my 
little  broker  here!  Zounds,  brother,  don't 
hurt  little  Premium.  What's  the  matter— 
my  little  fellow? 

Surf.  So!  He  has  been  with  you,  too, 
has  he? 

Chas.  To  be  sure  he  has!  Why,  'tis  as 

honest  a  little But  sure,  Joseph,  you 

have  not  been  borrowing  money  too,  have 
you? 

Surf.  Borrowing— no ! — But,  brother,  you 
know  sure  we  expect  Sir  Oliver  every 


Chas.  O  Gad,  that's  true— Noll  mustn't 
find  the  little  broker  here,  to  be  sure — 

Surf.     Yet   Mr.   Stanley   insists 

Chas.  Stanley !  why  '  his  name's  Pre- 
mium— 

Surf.     No,    no,   Stanley. 

Chas.     No,  no,   Premium. 

Surf.     Well,  no  matter  which— but 

Chas.  Aye,  aye,  Stanley  or  Premium,  'tis 
the  same  thing  as  you  say — for  I  suppose  he 
goes  by  half  a  hundred  names,  besides  A. 
B's  at  the  coffee-house.  [Knock. 

Surf.  'Sdeath,  here's  Sir  Oliver  at  the 
door.  Now,  I  beg,  Mr.  Stanley 

Chas.  Aye,  aye,  and  I  beg,  Mr.  Pre- 
mium  

Sir  Oliv.     Gentlemen 

Surf.     Sir,  by  Heaven,  you   shall   go — 

('/:,:.•.•.     Aye,   out  with  him  certainly 

Sir  Oliv.     This  violence 

Surf.     Tis    your    own    fault. 

Chas.     Out   with   him,   to   be   sure. 

[Both  forcing  SIR   OLIVER  out. 
Enter  SIR  PETER  TEAZLE,  LADY  TEAZLE,  MARIA, 
and  ROWLEY. 

Sir  Pet.  My  old  friend,  Sir  Oliver!— hey! 
what  in  the  name  of  wonder! — Here  are 
dutiful  nephews! — assault  their  uncle  at  his 
first  visit! 

Lady  Teas.  Indeed,  Sir  Oliver,  'twas  well 
we  came  in  to  rescue  you. 

Row.  Truly  it  was,  for  I  perceive,  Sir 
Oliver,  the  character  of  old  Stanley  was  no 
protection  to  you. 

Sir  Oliv.  Nor  of  Premium  either.  The 
necessities  of  the  former  could  not  extort  a 
shilling  from  that  benevolent  gentleman;  and 
with  the  other  I  stood  a  chance  of  faring 
worse  than  my  ancestors,  and  being  knocked 
down  without  being  bid  for. 

Surf.     Charles! 

Chas.     Joseph ! 

Surf.     Tis  complete! 

Chas.     Very ! 

Sir  Oliv.  Sir  Peter,  my  friend,  and  Row- 
ley too — look  on  that  elder  nephew  of  mine. 
You  know  what  he  has  already  received  from 
my  bounty  and  you  know  also  how  gladly 
I  would  have  looked  on  half  my  fortune  as 
held  in  trust  for  him.  Judge  then  my  dis- 
appointment in  discovering  him  to  be  desti- 
tute of  truth,  charity,  and  gratitude. 

Sir  Pet.  Sir  Oliver,  I  should  be  more  sur- 
prised at  this  declaration,  if  I  had  not  my- 
self found  him  to  be  selfish,  treacherous, 
and  hypocritical. 

Lady  Teas.  And  if  the  gentleman  pleads 
not  guilty  to  these,  pray  let  him  call  me  to 
his  character. 

Sir  Pet.  Then  I  believe  we  need  add  no 
more.  If  he  knows  himself,  he  will  con- 
sider it  as  the  most  perfect  punishment  that 
he  is  known  to  the  world. 


430 


THE  SCHOOL  FOR  SCANDAL         ACT  V,  SCENE  LAST 


Chas.  If  they  talk  this  way  to  Honesty, 
what  will  they  say  to  me  by  and  bye? 

Sir  Oliv.  As  for  that  prodigal,  his  brother 
there 

Chas.  Aye,  now  conies  my  turn — the 
damned  family  pictures  will  ruin  me. 

Surf.  Sir  Oliver,  uncle,  will  you  honor 
me  with  a  hearing? 

Chas.  I  wish  Joseph  now  would  make 
one  of  his  long  speeches  and  I  might  recol- 
lect myself  a  little. 

Sir  Oliv.  And  I  suppose  you  would  under- 
take to  vindicate  yourself  entirely — 

Surf.     I  trust  I  could — 

Sir  Oliv.  Nay,  if  you  desert  your  roguery 
in  its  distress  and  try  to  be  justified,  you 
have  even  less  principle  than  I  thought  you 
had.— [To  CHARLES  SURFACE]  Well,  sir,  and 
yon  could  justify  yourself  too,  I  suppose? 

Chas.     Not  that   I  know  of,  Sir  Oliver. 

Sir  Oliv.  What!  little  Premium  has  been 
let  too  much  into  the  secret,  I  presume. 

Chas.  True,  sir,  but  they  were  family 
secrets,  and  should  not  be  mentioned  again, 
you  know. 

Row.  Come,  Sir  Oliver,  I  know  you  can- 
not speak  of  Charles's  follies  with  anger. 

Sir  Oliv.  Odd's  heart,  no  more  I  can — nor 
with  gravity  either.  Sir  Peter,  do  you  know 
the  rogue  bargained  with  me  for  all  his  an- 
cestors— sold  me  judges  and  generals  by  the 
foot,  and  maiden  aunts  as  cheap  as  broken 
china! 

Chas.  To  be  sure,  Sir  Oliver,  I  did  make 
a  little  free  with  the  family  canvas,  that's 
the  truth  on't: — my  ancestors  may  certainly 
rise  in  judgment  against  me,  there's  no 
denying  it;— but  believe  me  sincere  when  I 
tell  you,  and  upon  my  soul  I  would  not  say 
so  if  I  was  not,  that  if  I  do  not  appear  mor- 
tified at  the  exposure  of  my  follies,  it  is  be- 
cause I  feel  at  this  moment  the  warmest 
satisfaction  in  seeing  you,  my  liberal  bene- 
factor. 

Sir  Oliv.  Charles— I  believe  you— give  me 
your  hand  again:  the  ill-looking  little  fellow 
over  the  couch  has  made  your  peace. 

Chas.  Then,  sir,  my  gratitude  to  the 
original  is  still  encreased. 

Lady  Teaz.  [Advancing.]  Yet  I  believe,  Sir 
Oliver,  here  is  one  whom  Charles  is  still 
more  anxious  to  be  reconciled  to. 

Sir  Oliv.  O,  I  have  heard  of  his  attach- 
ment there — and  with  the  young  lady's  par- 
don, if  I  construe  right  that  blush 

Sir  Pet.  Well,  child,  speak  your  senti- 
ments; you  know,  we  are  going  to  be  recon- 
ciled to  Charles. 

Mar.  Sir,  I  have  little  to  say,  but  that  I 
shall  rejoice  to  hear  that  he  is  happy.  For 
me  whatever  claim  I  had  to  his  affection,  I 
willing  resign  to  one  who  has  a  better  title. 

Chas.     How,  Maria! 


Sir  Pet.  Heyday,  what's  the  mystery 
now?  while  he  appeared  an  incorrigible  rake, 
you  would  give  your  hand  to  no  one  else, 
and  now  that  he's  likely  to  reform  I'll 
warrant  you  won't  have  him! 

Mar.  His  own  heart— and  Lady  Sneer- 
well  know  the  cause. 

Chas.     Lady    Sneerwell ! 

Surf.  Brother,  it  is  with  great  concern— 
I  am  obliged  to  speak  on  this  point,  but  my 
regard  to  justice  obliges  me— and  Lady 
Sneerwell's  injuries  can  no  longer  be  con- 
cealed—  [Goes  to  the  door. 

Enter  LADY   SNEERWELL. 

Sir  Pet.  Soh!  another  French  milliner, 
egad!  He  has  one  in  every  room  in  the 
house,  I  suppose — 

Lady  Sneer.  Ungrateful  Charles!  Well 
may  you  be  surprised  and  feel  for  the  in- 
delicate situation  which  your  perfidy  has 
forced  me  into. 

Chas.  Pray,  uncle,  is  this  another  plot 
of  yours?  for  as  I  have  life,  I  don't  under- 
stand it. 

Surf.  I  believe,  sir,  there  is  but  the  evi- 
dence of  one  person  more  necessary  to  make 
it  extremely  clear. 

Sir  Pet.  And  that  person,  I  imagine,  is 
Mr.  Snake.  Rowley,  you  were  perfectly 
right  to  bring  him  with  us,  and  pray  let  him 
appear. 

Row.     Walk  in,  Mr.  Snake- 
Enter  SNAKE. 

I  thought  his  testimony  might  be  wanted, — 
however  it  happens  unluckily  that  he  comes 
to  confront  Lady  Sneerwell  and  not  to  sup- 
port her. 

Lady  Sneer.  A  villain! — Treacherous  to 
me  at  last!  Speak,  fellow,  have  you  too 
conspired  against  me? 

Snake.  I  beg  your  ladyship  ten  thousand 
pardons, — you  paid  me  extremely  liberally 
for  the  lie  in  question — but  I  unfortunately 
have  been  offered  double  to  speak  the  truth. 

Lady  Sneer.  The  torments  of  shame  and 
disappointment  on  you  all ! 

Lady  Teas.  Hold,  Lady  Sneerwell,  before 
you  go,  let  me  thank  you  for  the  trouble  you 
and  that  gentleman  have  taken  in  writing 
letters  from  me  to  Charles  and  answering 
them  yourself— and  let  me  also  request  you 
to  make  my  respects  to  the  Scandalous  Col- 
lege— of  which  you  are  President— and  inform 
them  that  Lady  Teazle,  Licentiate,  begs 
leave  to  return  the  diploma  they  granted  her 
— as  she  leaves  off  practice  and  kills  char- 
acters no  longer. 

Lady  Sneer.  Provoking  —  insolent!  —  may 
your  husband  live  these  fifty  years!  [Exit. 

Sir   Pet.     Oons,    what    a    fury! 

Lady    Teas.     A   malicious   creature   indeed! 


431 


EPILOGUE 


THE  SCHOOL  FOR  SCANDAL 


Sir  Pet.     Hey— not  for  her  last  wish?— 

Lady  Teas.     O,  no — 

Sir  Oliv.  Well,  sir,  and  what  have  you  to 
say  now? 

Surf.  Sir,  I  am  so  confounded,  to  find  that 
Lady  Sneerwell  could  be  guilty  of  suborning 
Mr.  Snake  in  this  manner  to  impose  on  us 

all  that  I  know  not  what  to  say. However, 

lest  her  revengeful  spirit  should  prompt  her 
to  injure  my  brother,  I  had  certainly  better 
follow  her  directly.  [Exit. 

Sir  Pet.     Moral  to  the  last  drop! 

Sir  Oliv.  Aye,  and  marry  her,  Joseph,  if 
you  can. — Oil  and  vinegar  egad: — you'll  do 
very  well  together. 

Row.  I  believe  we  have  no  more  occasion 
for  Mr.  Snake  at  present. 

Snake.  Before  I  go,  I  beg  pardon  once 
for  all  for  whatever  uneasiness  I  have  been 
the  humble  instrument  of  causing  to  the 
parties  present. 

Sir  Pet.  Well,  well,  you  have  made  atone- 
ment by  a  good  deed  at  last. 

Snake.  But  I  must  request  of  the  com- 
pany that  it  shall  never  be  known. 

Sir  Pet.  Hey! — what  the  plague — are  you 
ashamed  of  having  done  a  right  thing  once 
in  your  life? 

Snake.  Ah,  sir,  consider  I  live  by  the 
badness  of  my  character!— I  have  nothing 
but  my  infamy  to  depend  on! — and,  if  it  were 
once  known  that  I  had  been  betrayed  into  an 
honest  action,  I  should  lose  every  friend  I 
have  in  the  world. 

Sir  Oliv.  Well,  well,  we'll  not  traduce 
you  by  saying  anything  to  your  praise,  never 
fear.  [Exit  SNAKE. 

Sir  Pet.  There's  a  precious  rogue. — Yet 
that  fellow  is  a  writer  and  a  critic. 

Lady  Teaz.  See,  Sir  Oliver,  there  needs 
no  persuasion  now  to  reconcile  your  nephew 
and  Maria. 

Sir  Oliv.  Aye,  aye,  that's  as  it  should  be, 
and  egad,  we'll  have  the  wedding  to-morrow 
morning — 

Chas.     Thank  you,  dear  uncle! 

5t>  Pet.  What!  you  rogue,  don't  you  ask 
the  girl's  consent  first? 

Chas.  Oh,  I  have  done  that  a  long  time — 
above  a  minute  ago — and  she  has  looked 
yes — 

Mar.  For  shame,  Charles!  I  protest,  Sir 
Peter,  there  has  not  been  a  word- 

Sir  Oliv.  Well,  then,  the  fewer  the  better 
— may  your  love  for  each  other  never  know 
abatement. 

Sir  Pet.  And  may  you  live  as  happily 
together  as  Lady  Teazle  and  I — intend  to 
do. 

Chas.  Rowley,  my  old  friend,  I  am  sure 
you  congratulate  me  and  I  suspect  too  that 
I  owe  you  much. 

Sir    Oliv.     You    do,    indeed,    Charles. 


Row.  If  my  efforts  to  serve  you  had  not 
succeeded,  you  would  have  been  in  my  debt 
for  the  attempt; — but  deserve  to  be  happy — 
and  you  over-repay  me. 

Sir  Pet.  Aye,  honest  Rowley  always  said 
you  would  reform. 

Chas.  Why,  as  to  reforming,  Sir  Peter, 
I'll  make  no  promises — and  that  I  take  to 
be  a  proof  that  I  intend  to  set  about  it. — 
But  here  shall  be  my  monitor,  my  gentle 
guide. — Ah!  can  I  leave  the  virtuous  path 
those  eyes  illumine? 

Tho'    thou,    dear    maid,    should'st   waive    thy 

beauty's    sway, 

— Thou   still  must  rule — because   I   will  obey: 
An    humbled    fugitive    from    folly    view, 
Nr  sanctuary  near  but  love  and  you: 
You  can  indeed  each  anxious  fear  remove, 
For   even   scandal    dies   if   you   approve. 

[To   the   audience. 


EPILOGUE 

BY  MR.   COLMAN 
SPOKEN  BY  LADY  TEAZLE. 

I,  who  was  late  so  volatile  and  gay, 

Like    a    trade-wind    must    now    blow   all    one 

way, 
Bend    all    my    cares,    my    studies,    and    my 

vows, 

To  one   dull   rusty   weathercock— my   spouse! 
So     wills     our     virtuous     bard — the     motley 

Bayes 

Of  crying   epilogues  and   laughing  plays! 
Old  bachelors,  who  marry  smart  young  wives, 
Learn  from  our  play  to  regulate  your  lives: 
Each  bring  his  dear  to  town,  all  faults  upon 

her — 

London  will  prove  the  very  source  of  honor. 
Plunged  fairly  in,  like  a  cold  bath  it  serves, 
When  principles  relax,   to  brace  the   nerves: 
Such  is  my  case;  and  yet  I  must  deplore 
That  the  gay  dream  of  dissipation's  o'er. 
And   say,   ye   fair!   was    ever   lively   wife, 
Born  with  a  genius  for  the  highest  life, 
Like   me  untimely   blasted   in   her   bloom, 
Like  me  condemned  to  such  a  dismal  doom? 
Save  money — when  I  just  knew  how  to  waste 

it! 

Leave   London — just  as   I   began   to   taste   it! 
Must  I  then  watch  the  early  crowing  cock, 
The  melancholy   ticking  of  a  clock; 
In   a  lone  rustic  hall  for   ever  pounded, 
With    dogs,    cats,    rats,    and    squalling    brats 

surrounded  ? 

With  humble  curate  can  I  now  retire, 
(While     good     Sir     Peter     boozes     with     the 

squire,) 
And   at   backgammon   mortify   my    soul, 


432 


THE  SCHOOL  FOR  SCANDAL 


EPILOGUE 


That  pants  for  loo,  or  flutters  at  a  vole? 
Seven's    the    main!     Dear    sound    that    must 

expire, 

Lost  at  hot  cockles  round  a  Christmas  fire; 
The  transient  hour  of  fashion  too  soon  spent, 
Farewell  the  tranquil  mind,  farewell  content! 
Farewell  the  plumed  head,  the  cushioned 

tete, 

That  takes  the  cushion  from  its  proper  seat! 
That  spirit-stirring  drum! — card  drums  I 

mean, 
Spadille — odd      trick — pam — basto — king      and 

queen ! 
And    you,    ye    knockers,    that,    with    brazen 

throat, 

The    welcome    visitors'    approach    denote; 
Farewell  all  quality  of  high  renown, 


Pride,    pomp,    and    circumstance    of    glorious 

town! 

Farewell!  your  revels  I  partake  no  more, 
And    Lady    Teazle's    occupation's    o'er! 
All    this    I    told    our    bard;    he    smiled,    and 

said    'twas    clear, 

I  ought  to  play  deep  tragedy  next  year. 
Meanwhile    he    drew    wise    morals    from    his 

play, 

And  in  these  solemn  periods  stalk'd  away:— 
"  Blessed  were   the  fair  like  you;   her  faults 

who   stopped, 
And    closed    her    follies    when    the    curtain 

dropped ! 

No  more  in  vice  or  error  to  engage, 
Or    play    the    fool    at    large    on    life's    great 

stage." 


433 


NOTES 

THE  CONQUEST  OF  GRANADA 

P.  10.  Mrs.  Ellen  Gwyn.  Nell  Gwyn,  who  so  captivated  Charles  II  by  her 
delivery  of  the  Epilogue  to  Tyrannic  Love  that  he  immediately  made  her  his 
mistress.  She  bore  him  a  son  on  May  8,  1670,  shortly  before  she  acted  the 
part  of  the  virtuous  Almahide  in  The  Conquest  of  Granada. 

t'other  house's.  The  two  theatrical  companies  were  the  King's  at  the 
Theatre  Royal  in  Drury  Lane,  where  The  Conquest  of  Granada  was  acted, 
and  the  Duke's  at  the  Dorset  Garden  Theatre.  Nokes  was  a  comedian  in 
the  latter  company,  and  it  is  said  that  during  the  visit  of  the  Duchess  of 
Orleans  and  her  suite  to  England  in  May,  1670,  he  caricatured  French 
dress  by  means  of  a  broad-brimmed  hat. 

two  the  best  comedians.  Nokes  and  Nell  Gwyn,  who,  as  actors  of  such 
comic  parts,  are  mere  "  blocks  "  for  hats. 

P.  ii.  To  like.    As  to  like. 

The  flying  skirmish  of  the  darted  cane.  A  game  in  which  horsemen  gal- 
loping from  all  sides  throw  at  one  another  a  wooden  javelin  about  five  feet 
long,  called  the  jerid. 

P.  12.  launched.     Pierced. 

attend.    Await,  as  often. 

mirador.    A  turret  or  belvedere  on  the  top  of  a  Spanish  house. 

escapade.    A  fit  of  plunging  and  rearing. 

ventanna.    A  window. 

prevents.     Anticipate,  as  often. 

atabals.     Kettle-drums. 

P.   13.  ought.     Owed. 

villain-blood.     Low  origin. 

P.  14.  Xeriff.     The  still  reigning  royal  family  of  Morocco. 

P.  15.  precarious.     Supplicating. 

P.  16.  sambra.  A  Moorish  festival  or  feast,  attended  with  dancing  and 
music.  Here  it  is  the  dance  alone. 

lost  the  tale,  and  took  'em  by  the  great.  Lost  count  and  treated  them  as 
a  whole. 

bands.     Bonds. 

P.   17.  our  triumphs.    Triumphs  over  us. 

P.  19.  while.    Noyes  suggests  "  till "  as  an  emendation  to  meet  the  sense. 

P.  21.  upon  liking.     On  approval  or  trial. 

P.  24.  "  The  quotation  marks  in  the  quartos  and  folio  before  these  lines 
[near  the  top  of  first  column]  are  evidently  meant  to  emphasize  them,  or  to 
point  them  out  as  suitable  for  quotation."  (Noyes.) 

P.  26.  Age  sets  to  fortune.  Age  gives  a  challenge  to  fortune,  that  is,  will 
play  only  when  it  has  a  fortune  on  which  it  can  risk  the  game,  while  youth 
will  risk  all,  no  matter  what  it  has. 

expect.    Await. 

P.  31.  out.  Without,  outside.  Cf.  Timon  of  Athens,  IV,  i,  38,  "Both 
within  and  out  that  wall." 

435 


NOTES 

equal.     Impartial. 

P.  32.  benefit.    Gift,  favor. 

P.  33-  retrenchment.    An  inner  line  of  defence  within  a  large  fortification. 

P.  35-  deludes.    Eludes. 

P.  36.  still.    Always,  as  often. 

hardly.    With  difficulty. 

your  sight.    The  sight  of  you. 

on  another's  hand.    For  another's  advantage.     (Saintsbury.) 

still.    Continually. 

P.  38.  this  'year's  delay.  Elapsed  since  the  production  of  Tyrannic  Love, 
Dryden's  last  play.  Nell  Gwyn  was  one  of  the  women  who  were  away  for 
the  reason  indicated  in  the  note  to  the  Prologue. 

ALL  FOR  LOVE 

P.  43.  bate.    Abate. 

Tonies.    Fools,  simpletons. 

Hectors.  Ruffians,  later  called  "  Scowerers  "  and  "Mohocks."  (See  New 
English  Dictionary.) 

P.  44.  rivelled.    Wrinkled,  shrivelled. 

phocce.    Seals. 

sea-horses.    Hippopotami. 

P.  45.  can.  "  The  absolute  use  of  can  is  probably  an  affectation  of 
archaism  on  Dryden's  part."  (Noyes.) 

O,  she  dotes,  etc.  A  reminiscence  of  Midsummer  Night's  Dream,  I,  i, 
108-110. 

P.  46.  eagerly.    Keenly,  impatiently. 

influence.  "  Flowing  from  stars  of  ethereal  fluid,  affecting  character  and 
destiny  of  man."  (N.  E.  D.)  Frequent  in  Shakspere. 

vulgar  fate.  "  If  this  be  the  phonetic  spelling  of  fete,  it  is  a  far  earlier 
example  than  any  given  in  the  New  English  Dictionary."  (Furness,  Antony 
and  Cleopatra.) 

"Enter  a  second  Gentleman  of  M.  Antony."  Noyes'  reading  for  "Re- 
enter  the  Gentleman  of  M.  Antony."  It  is  justified  "  by  the  following  speech 
headings  and  by  the  fact  that  the  Gentleman  mentioned  [a  hundred  lines 
above]  has  never  left  the  stage." 

P.  47.  I'm  now  turned  wild,  etc.  This  passage  is  suggested  by  As  You 
Like  It,  II,  i,  29-57.  (See  Introduction.) 

Art  thou  Ventidius?  The  distinction  between  "  thou  "  and  "  you  "  seems 
to  be  preserved  here  as  in  Shakspere.  See  elsewhere  in  the  play. 

P.  48.  marches.    Boundaries,  frontiers. 

used.    Accustomed. 

P.  49.  O  that  thou  wert  my  equal!  Antony's  standard  of  honor,  like  that 
prevailing  in  the  "  heroic  "  plays,  is  made  to  accord  with  the  sentiment  of 
Dryden's  own  time. 

P.  50.  May  taste  fate  to  them.  "  May  act  as  their  tasters  in  fortune."  A 
reference  to  the  officer  who  guarded  the  great  from  poison  by  tasting  all 
dishes  at  a  feast. 

The  riming  close  of  the  act  recalls  the  tags  of  scenes  in  Shakspere's  plays. 

P.  51.  fearful.    "  Timid,"  as  often  in  Shakspere. 

close.     Secret. 

The  fable  of  the  wren,  who  mounted  to  heaven  concealed  in  the  eagle's 
feathers  and  thus  outstripped  the  king  of  birds  in  his  flight,  had  already 
been  used  by  Dryden  in  2  Conquest  of  Granada,  V,  ii,  126.  The  story  is 

436 


NOTES 

told  by  Alexander  Neckham,  De  Naturis  Rcrum  (122),  at  the  end  of  the 
twelfth  century,  a  century  before  Rabbi  Baradji  Nikdani's  version  of  The 
Tale,  cited  by  Noyes.  Grimm  includes  the  fable  in  his  collection. 

P.  55.  /  have  refused  a  kingdom.  Noyes  contrasts  Cleopatra's  loyalty  to 
Antony  here  with  the  faithlessness  of  Shakspere's  Queen  (Antony  and 
Cleopatra,  III,  xiii,  73-78.) 

P.  56.  Phlegrcean  plains.  The  place  that  was  fabled  to  have  witnessed  the 
conflict  between  the  gods  and  the  earth-born  Titans. 

like  Vulcan.  A  reference  to  the  snaring  of  Venus  and  Mars  by  Vulcan. 
(Odyssey,  VIII,  266-366.) 

There's  no  satiety,  etc.  This  is  obviously  suggested  by  Antony  and  Cle- 
opatra, II,  ii,  240. 

my  father  Hercules.  This  allusion  to  the  supposed  ancestor  of  the  An- 
tonies  is  drawn  not  from  Shakspere,  but  directly  from  Plutarch. 

P.  57.  so  one.     So  in  accord. 

Her  galley  down  the  silver  Cydnos,  etc.  Scott's  preference  for  Dryden's 
description  of  Cleopatra's  barge  over  Shakspere's  more  famous  picture  (An- 
tony and  Cleopatra,  II,  ii,  196-223)  is  "  founded  upon  the  easy  flow  of  the 
verse  .  .  .  and  the  beauty  of  the  language  and  imagery,  which  is  flowing 
without  diffusiveness  and  rapturous  without  hyperbole."  This  opinion  is  not 
shared  by  recent  editors. 

P.  59.  confess  a  man.    Admit  yourself  a  man. 

mistakes.     Mis  judgments. 

P.  61.  want.     Lack. 

P.  62.  Porc'pisce.  Porpoise.  Editors  suggest  that  Alexis,  like  the  por- 
poise, messenger  of  tempests,  is  fat  and  probably  black. 

P.  63.  puts  out.    Brings  to  surface. 

Callus.  This  great  general  was  pitted  by  Octavius  against  Antony  in 
Egypt.  His  passion  for  Lycoris  (Cytheris)  which  inspired  his  elegies,  now 
lost,  is  the  subject  of  Vergil's  tenth  eclogue.  Ovid  speaks  of  Delia's  poet, 
the  far  greater  Tibullus,  as  the  successor  of  Gallus  and  his  companion  in 
the  Elysian  fields. 

P.  64.  Commerce.  Stressed  as  in  Shakspere  on  the  second  syllable  until 
early  in  the  eighteenth  century. 

P.  65.  prove.    Test.     So  p.  70. 

every  man's  Cleopatra.  An  obvious  reminiscence  of  Much  Ado,  III,  ii,  108, 
"  Leonato's  Hero,  your  Hero,  every  man's  Hero."  See  Fielding's  Tom 
Thumb,  II,  x,  13-15,  p.  310. 

P.  68.  secure  of  injured  faith.  "  Safe  from  any  breach  of  confidence." 
(Noyes.) 

P.  70.  Egypt  has  been.    Cf.  JEneid,  II,  325,  "  Fuit  Ilium." 

in  few.    In  brief. 

This  needed  not.     "  This  was  not  necessary." 

P.  74.  /  played  booty  with  my  life.  "  To  play  booty  is  '  to  allow  one's 
adversary  to  win  at  cards  at  first,  in  order  to  induce  him  to  continue  playing 
and  victimize  him  afterwards'  (Webster's  International  Dictionary}.  An- 
tony's meaning  is  that  Caesar  will  suspect  him  of  a  sham  attempt  at  suicide, 
in  order  to  win  compassion  from  the  conqueror."  (Noyes.) 

P.  76.  Mr.  Bayes.  Here  Dryden  refers  to  the  name  given  him  by  Buck- 
ingham in  The  Rehearsal.  See  the  use  of  the  name  in  the  Epilogues  of  She 
Stoops  to  Conquer  and  The  School  for  Scandal. 

writ  of  ease.     A  certificate  of  discharge  from  employment.     (N.  E.  D.) 


437 


NOTES 


VENICE  PRESERVED 

P.  81.  Venice  Preserved  has  yet  another  prologue,  written  by  Dryden, 
and  another  epilogue  by  Otway,  both  "  spoken  upon  his  Royal  Highness  the 
Duke  of  York's  coming  to  the  Theatre,  Friday,  April  21,  1682."  These  are 
printed  in  the  Appendix  to  the  "  Temple "  and  to  the  "  Belles  Lettres " 
editions  of  the  play. 

witnesses.  Titus  Gates  and  other  informers  against  the  accused  in  the 
"  Popish  Plot." 

P.  82.  Here  is  a  traitor  too  that's  very  old.  Though  the  application  has 
been  overlooked  by  all  editors,  this  is  an  obvious  reference  to  William 
Howard,  Viscount  Stafford,  who,  accused  of  participation  in  the  "  Popish 
Plot,"  was  tried  by  his  peers  in  December,  1680,  found  guilty  and  executed. 
The  sentence  "  to  be  hanged  and  quartered "  was  remitted  by  the  King  in 
spite  of  much  vindictive  opposition  to  this  clemency. 

Mother  Creswold's.  Mother  Creswell,  a  white-slaver  of  the  time — like  the 
Chaffinches  in  "  Peveril  of  the  Peak." 

Oh  Poland,  Poland,  etc.  An  obvious  reference  to  the  designs  of  the  Earl 
of  Shaftesbury  upon  the  crown  of  Poland. 

P.  83.  practised.  Plotted.  Priuli's  speech  recalls  Brabantio's  words  to 
Othello  (I,  ii,  62),  "O  thou  foul  thief,  where  hast  thou  stowed  my 
daughter? " 

The  Adriatic  wedded,  etc.  Otway  had  found  in  his  source  this  reference 
to  the  Venetian  ceremony  of  Ascension  Day : — "  Jaffier  had  the  curiosity 
to  witness  the  ceremony  of  the  Doge  espousing  the  sea."  "  We  wed  thee, 
O  Sea,  as  token  of  a  true  and  lasting  dominion  "  was  the  formula,  accom- 
panied by  the  casting  of  a  gold  ring  into  the  depths.  See  below. 

still.     Constantly,  always, — as  in  Shakspere. 

P.  84.  weeds.     Garments,  dress,  as  in  "  widow's  weeds." 

P.  85.  that  filthy  cuckoo.  The  cuckoo's  habit  of  depositing  its  eggs  in  the 
nest  of  some  other  bird,  which  is  ultimately  destroyed  by  its  nestling,  has 
been  the  theme  of  writers  from  Aristotle  to  Chaucer  and  Shakspere.  See 
The  Way  of  the  World,  Prologue,  8-9. 

Hirco.    From  Latin,  hircus,  a  goat. 

privilege.  Doubtless  the  special  right  or  immunity  of  Antonio  as  a  senator 
(i.e.,  of  Anthony  Ashley  Cooper  as  a  peer). 

public  good.     Commonwealth.     See  three  lines  below,  common  good. 

massy.    Massive. 

P.  87.  suage.    Assuage,  soothe. 

P.  88.  out-act.     Excel,  outdo. 

hearse.    Coffin,  bier. 

The  Ephesian  matron.  This  story  of  the  widow  who  mutilates  her  dead 
husband  for  the  love  of  a  knight  is  "  perhaps  the  most  popular  of  all  stories  " 
(Joseph  Jacobs).  Upon  its  earliest  version,  that  of  Petronius,  Chapman 
founded  his  Widow's  Tears.  It  was  well  known  to  the  Middle  Ages  in 
a  variant  appearing  in  The  Seven  Sages  of  Rome. 

keep  up.     Shut  up. 

fisk.    Frisk,  scamper  about. 

mumping.     Grimacing,  chattering. 

P.  89.  aches.    A  dissyllable,  as  in  Shakspere. 

green-sickness  girls.    Young  girls  morbid  with  love. 

P.  90.  dull.     Slow  in  action. 

sea-coal.    Usually  explained  as  "  coal  brought  to  London  by  sea."     "  Pos- 

438 


NOTES 

sibly  in  early  times,  the  chief  source  of  coal  supply  may  have  been  the  beds 
exposed  by  marine  denudation  on  the  coasts  of  Northumberland  and  South 
Wales"  (N.  E.  £>.). 

P.  93.  rump.    Romp,  frolic. 

P.  94.  sixty-one  years.  Antonio's  age,  as  well  as  his  name,  is  made  to 
conform  to  that  of  the  Earl  of  Shaftesbury. 

P.  95.  censurest.    Judgest. 

P.  96.  Cato's  daughter.  The  story  of  "  Cato's  daughter,  Brutus'  Portia " 
(Merchant  of  Venice,  I,  i,  166),  was  as  popular  among  the  Elizabethans  (cf. 
Julius  Casar)  as  that  of  Lucrece  and  Tarquin  (cited  earlier  in  this  scene). 

bone.     Boon,  boon  companion. 

P.  98.  foil.     Track  of  a  hunted  animal. 

caudles.    Warm  drinks  sweetened  and  spiced. 

watering  at.    Longing  for,  lusting  after. 

towzed.    Tousle,  pull  about,  handle  roughly. 

monster.     Beast  with  horns,  cuckold. 

mortifying.  Practising  self-denial,  ascetic.  A  common  Shaksperean  use 
of  the  word. 

P.  99.  battalia.     Body  of  men  in  battle  array. 

P.  108.  gall.     Early  quartos  read,  call. 

P.  no.  Hey  then,  up  go  we.    The  refrain  of  many  songs  of  the  period. 

P.  114.  baited.    Worried,  tormented. 

P.  115.  smuggle.     Snuggle,  fondle. 

P.  116.  Rose  Alley  cudgel-ambuscade.  A  reference  to  the  cowardly  attack 
upon  Dryden,  at  the  end  of  1679,  by  the  hired  ruffians  of  the  Earl  of 
Rochester,  who  was  also  Otway's  enemy. 

picture-mangier  at  Guild-hall.  The  rascal  that  cut  the  Duke  of  York's 
picture. 

THE  WAY  OF  THE  WORLD 

P.  122.  Audire  est. . .  It  is  worth  your  while,  ye  that  do  not  wish  well  to 
adulterers,  to  hear  how  they  are  hampered  on  all  sides. 

metuat. . .     The  woman  fears  for  her  dowry,  if  she  should  be  caught. 

In  her  own  nest . . .  The  cuckoo  lays  her  eggs  in  the  nest  of  another  bird, 
which  hatches  them  out.  Cf.  Venice  Preserved,  I,  i,  p.  85. 

buttered  still...    Always  flattered  lavishly. 

P.  124.  vapors.    Depression,  hypochondria. 

one  man  of  the  community.     Made  up  of  Witwoud  and  Petulant. 

ratafia.  A  cordial  or  liqueur  flavored  with  certain  fruits  or  their  kernels, 
usually  almonds  or  peach-,  apricot-,  and  cherry-kernels.  (N.  E.  D.) 

continued  in  the  state  of  nature.     Proceeded  naturally. 

the  last  canonical  hour.  The  canonical  hours  were  certain  times  of  the 
day  appointed  by  the  canons  for  prayer  and  devotion.  (N.  E.  D.) 

tedious.    Slow. 

Pancras.    The  Church  of  St.  Pancras  in  the  Fields. 

Duke's-place.  St.  James's  Church,  Duke's  Place,  Aldgate,  where  Fleet 
marriages  were  performed. 

P.  125.  Dame  Partlet.  The  proper  name  of  a  hen,  so  used  in  Chaucer's 
Nonne  Preestes  Tale. 

Rosamond's  Pond.  Situated  in  the  southwest  corner  of  St.  James's  Park 
and  famous  as  a  lovers'  meeting-place. 

the  monster  in  The  Tempest.    Caliban. 

439 


NOTES 

P.  126.  commonplace  of  comparisons.  A  commonplace  book  or  collection 
of  comparisons  for  use  in  conversation. 

P.  127.  cinnamon-water.  A  drink  composed  of  sugar,  water,  and  spirit 
flavored  with  cinnamon.  (Archer.) 

Roxolanas.  Roxolana  is  the  queen  of  Solyman  the  Magnificent  in 
D'Avenant's  Siege  of  Rhodes, 

P.  128.  pearl  of  orient.  A  pearl  from  the  Indian  seas  of  greater  beauty 
.than  that  found  in  European  waters. 

a  quaker  hates  a  parrot.    Because  the  parrot  is  so  talkative.     (Archer.) 

a  fishmonger  hates  a  hard  frost.  Because  the  cold  makes  his  work  very 
unpleasant. 

the  Mall.    Once  part  of  St.  James's  Park,  now  Pall  Mall. 

P.  129.  Pcnthesilea.    Queen  of  the  Amazons. 

P.  131.  you  have  a  mask.  Masks  were  as  generally  worn  at  this  time  as 
veils  are  to-day. 

Mosca  in  The  Fox  .  .  .  Mosca  in  Jonson's  Volpone  made  what  terms  he 
pleased  with  his  dupes  by  declaring  each  of  them  to  be  the  sole  heir  of 
Volpone,  who  was  falsely  represented  as  on  the  point  of  death. 

P.  132.  with  her  fan  spread.    A  play  on  fan,  meaning  wing,  sail. 

tift  and  tift.  To  tiff  is  to  dress,  deck  out,  trick  out  (one's  person,  hair, 
etc.). 

crips.     Crisp,  curly. 

P.  134.  Mopus.    A  dull,  stupid  person. 

Spanish  paper.    A  cosmetic. 

bit  of  nutmeg  in  your  pocket.  Cf.  Swift,  Polite  Conversation,  97:  "If 
you  carry  a  nutmeg  in  your  pocket,  you'll  certainly  be  marry'd  to  an  old 
man."  (Quoted  in  N.  E.  D.) 

P.  135.  Maritornes.     A  chambermaid  with  whom  Don  Quixote  is  in  love. 

Quarles  and  Prynne.  Francis  Quarles  (1592-1644),  a  sacred  poet,  whose 
most  famous  work  is  Divine  Emblems.  William  Prynne  (1600-1669),  a 
Puritan  lawyer,  whose  Histriomastix,  a  huge  work  of  eleven  hundred  pages, 
was  a  violent  attack  upon  the  stage. 

The  Short  View  of  the  Stage.  Jeremy  Collier  (1650-1726)  in  1698  severely 
arraigned  the  stage  in  his  Short  View  of  the  Immorality  and  Profaneness 
of  the  English  Stage. 

Robin  from  Locket's.  A  drawer  or  waiter  from  Locket's  Ordinary,  a  well- 
known  tavern. 

Long-lane.  From  West  Smithfield  to  Barbican ;  it  was  given  over  to  the 
sale  of  second-hand  clothes. 

P.  136.  the  million  lottery.     A  lottery  with  a  million  pounds  in  prizes. 

the  whole  court  upon  a  birthday.  Because  of  the  presents  given  a  royal 
personage  upon  his  birthday. 

Ludgate.  A  prison  for  debtors  of  the  better  class.  It  was  in.  the  precinct 
of  Blackfriars. 

has  a  month's  mind.    Has  an  inclination  or  liking,  in  this  case  to  Mirabell. 

passe-partout.     A  master-key. 

P.  137.  the  day  of  projection.  Projection  in  alchemy  was  the  casting  of  the 
powder  of  philosopher's  stone  upon  a  metal  in  fusion  to  effect  its  transmuta- 
tion into  gold  or  silver.  (N.  E.  D.} 

drop  de  Berri.    A  kind  of  woollen  cloth  coming  from  Berry  in  France. 
(N.  E.  D.) 
.—Kkenish  -wine  tea.    Taken  to  reduce  flesh.     (Archer.) 

burnishes.    Increases  in  breadth. 

P.  138.  the  ordinary's  paid  for  setting  the  psalm.     The  ordinary  was  the 

440 


NOTES 

chaplain  of  Newgate  prison,  whose  duty  it  was  to  prepare  condemned  pris- 
oners for  death.  (N.  E.  D.)  See  The  Beggar's  Opera,  p.  279. 

P.  139.  Bartlemew  and  his  fair.  In  August  every  year  from  1133  to  1855 
a  fair  was  held  at  West  Smithfield  at  which  all  kinds  of  wares  were  sold 
and  shows  exhibited.  See  Ben  Jonson's  account  of  this  in  his  Bartholomew 
Fair. 

smoke.     Make  fun  of. 

by  the  Wrekin.  A  solitary  hill  near  Shrewsbury.  Cf.  Farquhar's  address 
"  To  all  friends  round  the  Wrekin  "  prefixed  to  his  Recruiting  Officer. 

flap-dragon.  From  signifying  a  play  in  which  a  raisin  burning  in  brandy 
is  caught  in  the  mouth  and  then  eaten,  the  word  comes  to  mean  a  raisin 
thus  caught  and  eaten,  till  at  last  it  denotes  anything  worthless,  as  here. 

a  hare's  scut.     A  hare's  short,  erect  tail,  hence  anything  worthless. 

P.  140.  Salop.     Shropshire,  of  which  the  county  seat  is  Shrewsbury. 

a  call  of  sergeants.  When  a  sergeant-at-law  or  lawyer  was  called  to  the 
bar. 

out  of  your  time.  While  you  were  still  indentured  to  an  attorney. 
(Archer.) 

Furnival's  Inn.  In  Holborn,  one  of  the  inns  of  Chancery,  attached  to 
Lincoln's  Inn. 

Dawks's  Letter.     The  news-letter  founded  by  Ichabod  Dawks  in  1696. 

Weekly  Bill.  The  Weekly  Bills  of  Mortality  for  London,  issued  from 
1538  until  1837,  are  mentioned  by  Farquhar,  The  Beaux'  Stratagem,  II,  i 
(this  edition,  p.  167). 

to  choose.     By  choice,  in  preference. 

P.  141.  deputy-lieutenant's  hall.     Because  decorated  with  antlers. 

cap  of  maintenance.  A  kind  of  cap,  with  two  points  like  horns  behind, 
borne  in  the  arms  of  certain  families  ...  is  described  by  heralds  as  a  "  cap 
of  maintenance."  (N.  E.  D.)  The  word  "  maintenance  "  is  to  be  taken  in 
its  usual  meaning,  since  Mrs.  Marwood  says  that  his  horns  (the  sign  of  the 
cuckold)  may  maintain  him  if  he  can  endure  ("away  with")  his  wife. 

set  his  hand  in.     Enter  him  in  the  game. 

P.  142.  pulvilled.     Perfumed  with  powder. 

"  There  never  yet. .  ."•  From  "  Poems  on  Several  Occasions,"  p.  20,  ed. 
1719,  of  Suckling's  'Works.  Sir  John  Suckling  (1609-1642)  was  a  lyric  and 
dramatic  poet. 

"  Thyrsis,  a  youth . . ."  From  Waller's  The  Story  of  Phccbus  and  Daphne 
Applied.  Edmund  Waller  (1606-1687)  was  a  lyric  poet. 

"/  prithee  spare  me..."  These  and  the  following  verses  are  also  from 
Suckling's  "  Poems  on  Several  Occasions,"  p.  24. 

P.  143.  all  a  case.    All  one. 

"Like  Phccbus  sung..."    From  Waller's  poem  mentioned  above. 

instant.    Urgent. 

douceurs,  ye  sommeils  du  matin.    Sweetnesses,  ye  morning  naps.     (Archer.) 

P.  144.  Barbadoes  zvaters.  A  cordial  flavored  with  orange-  and  lemon-peel. 
(.V.  E.  D.) 

clary.  A  sweet  liquor  consisting  of  a  mixture  of  wine,  clarified  honey,  and 
various  spices,  as  pepper  and  ginger.  (N.  E.  D.) 

P.  145.  unsized  camlet.  A  kind  of  stuff  originally  made  of  silk  and  camel's 
hair.  (Johnson.)  Hence  very  soft  and  delicate  stuff.  "Unsized"  means 
without  size  or  stiffening. 

noli  prosequi.     Notice  of  unwillingness  to  prosecute. 

Lacedemonian.     One  who  speaks  with  laconic  brevity. 

Baldwin.    The  name  of  the  ass  in  the  mediaeval  story  of  Reynard  the  Fox. 

441 


NOTES 

Gemini.    The  twin  stars,  Castor  and  Pollux ;  hence  loosely  used  for  a  pair. 

Borachio.  The  Spanish  word  borachio  means  a  leather  wine  bottle ;  hence 
it  is  applied  to  a  drunkard.  Cf.  Borachio  in  Shakspere's  Much  Ado. 

P.  146.  a  good  pimple.    A  boon  companion. 

Salopian.    An  inhabitant  of  Salop  or  Shropshire. 

thou  shalt  be  my  Tantony...  The  hog  is  one  of  the  symbols  of  St. 
Anthony.  "  The  monks  of  the  Order  of  St.  Anthony  kept  herds  of  con- 
secrated pigs,  which  were  allowed  to  feed  at  the  public  charge,  and  which  it 
was  a  profanation  to  steal  or  kill ;  hence  the  proverb  about  the  fatness  of 
a  'Tantony  pig.'"  (Mrs.  Jameson,  Sacred  and  Legendary  Art,  ii,  733.) 

P.  147.  save-all.    A  pan  with  spike  for  burning  up  candle-ends. 

P.  148.  bulk.  A  framework  projecting  from  the  front  of  a  shop;  a  stall. 
(N.  E.  D.) 

Frisoneer  gorget.  A  kerchief  made  of  woollen  stuff  and  worn  by  women 
over  their  bosoms. 

colbertine.    A  kind  of  open  lace  with  a  square  ground. 

put  upon  his  clergy.  Forced  to  plead  benefit  of  clergy,  thereby  escaping 
punishment  at  the  hands  of  the  law. 

Abigails  and  Andrews.    Ladies'  maids  and  gentlemen's  valets. 

Philander.    Lover. 

P.  149.  Duke's-place.    See  above,  I,  i. 

Bridewell-bride.  Bridewell  was  a  house  of  correction  for  prisoners.  Cf. 
Tom  Thumb,  p.  303. 

P.  150.  O  yes.  The  Old  French  Oyez,  hear  ye.  A  call  by  a  court  officer  to 
command  silence;  hence  here  as  an  introduction  to  a  scandalous  case  to  be 
tried  at  court. 

— *moif.     A  white  cap  formerly  worn  by  lawyers  as  a  distinctive  mark  of 
their  profession.     (N.  E.  D.} 

cantharides.  Used  internally  as  a  stimulant  to  the  genito-urinary  organs. 
(N.  E.  £>.) 

cow-itch.  Cpwage,  the  hairs  of  the  pod  of  a  tropical  plant,  which  cause 
intolerable  itching. 

P.  151.  Csarish  Majesty's  retinue.  Peter  the  First  paid  a  visit  to  England 
in  1697,  three  years  before  the  production  of  this  play. 

P.  152.  Pylades  and  Orestes.  Orestes,  who  was  offered  life  by  the  priestess 
Iphigeneia  provided  he  carry  a  message  to  Greece,  persuades  Pylades  to  take 
his  place  while  he  undergoes  death.  The  discovery  that  Iphigeneia  is  his 
sister  saves  his  life. 

quorum.  Certain  justices  of  the  peace,  usually  of  eminent  learning  and 
ability,  whose  presence  was  necessary  to  constitute  a  bench.  (N.  E.  £>.) 

an  old  fox.    A  sword. 

mittimus.  A  command  in  writing  to  a  jailer  to  keep  the  person  in  custody 
in  close  confinement ;  here  the  vellum  upon  which  such  an  order  might  be 
written.  (Archer.) 

P.  153.  Messalina's  poems.  Messalina  was  the  shameless  wife  of  Tiberius 
Claudius  (10  B.C.-54  A.D.),  emperor  of  Rome. 

THE  BEAUX'  STRATAGEM 

P.  161.  the  Plain-Dealer.  A  reference  to  Wycherley,  under  the  name  of 
his  last  and  perhaps  greatest  comedy,  which  appeared  in  the  year  of  Farquhar's 
birth  (1677). 

P.    162.  Union.    The   Treaty   of    Union   between   England   and    Scotland 

442 


NOTES 

received  the  assent  of  Queen  Anne,  March  6,  1707,  two  days  before  the  pro- 
duction of  our  comedy. 

P.  163.  the  Lion  and  the  Rose.  The  names  of  inn-rooms.  Cf.  She  Stoops 
to  Conquer,  III,  i,  p.  340. 

usquebaugh.  Irish  "water  of  life"  or  whisky  (cf.  French  "eau  de 
vie  "). 

tympanies.    Dropsical  swelling  of  the  abdomen. 

fits  of  the  mother.     Hysterics. 

the  king's  evil.     Scrofula. 

chincough.    Whooping-cough. 

P.  164.  whisk.    The  old  form  of  whist. 

curious.    Eccentric. 

P.  165.  counterscarp.  In  fortification  the  slope  of  a  ditch  opposite  the 
parapet. 

Act&on.  A  hunter  changed  to  a  stag  by  Diana,  whom  he  sees  bathing,  and 
torn  to  pieces  by  his  own  dogs. 

out  of  doors.     Out  of  fashion. 

P.  166.  our  gang.  Macaulay,  in  the  famous  third  chapter  of  his  History, 
cites  "  a  proclamation  warning  the  innkeepers  that  the  eye  of  the  government 
was  upon  them.  Their  criminal  connivance,  it  was  affirmed,  enabled  banditti 
to  infest  the  roads  with  impunity.  That  these  suspicions  were  not  without 
foundation  is  proved  by  the  dying  speeches  of  some  penitent  robbers  of  that 
age,  who  appear  to  have  received  from  the  innkeepers  services  much  resem- 
bling those  which  Farquhar's  Boniface  rendered  to  Gibbet."  See,  too,  Austin 
Dobson's  "  Ballad  of  Beau  Brocade." 

P.  167.  In  St.  Martin's  Parish.  In  this  parish,  Farquhar  wrote  our  play, 
and  here,  a  month  or  two  later,  he  died  and  was  buried. 

Doctors'  Commons.  "  The  Association  or  College  of  Doctors  of  Civil  Law 
dined  in  commons :  hence  the  name,  which  was  applied  also  to  the  civil  and 
ecclesiastical  courts  which  convened  in  the  buildings  of  the  Association.  These 
courts  had  jurisdiction  in  matters  of  marriage  and  divorce."  (Strauss.) 

within  the  weekly  bills.  The  district  covered  by  the  London  Bills  of 
Mortality,  kept  from  1538  to  1837, — hence  the  city,  as  distinguished  from  the 
country.  Cf.  The  Way  of  the  World,  III,  i  (p.  140). 

P.  168.  tea.  Tea,  introduced  into  England  at  the  Restoration,  was  drunk 
in  mid-morning  at  this  period. 

naught.    Wicked.    Like  "  naughty  "  in  Shakspere. 

P.  169.  the  coronation.  The  coronation  of  Queen  Anne,  nearly  five  years 
before,  April  23,  1702. 

ceruse.    A  white-lead  cosmetic. 

P.  170.  premises.    The  articles  just  mentioned. 
._. .  gentlemen  o'  the  pad.    Gentlemen  of  the  road  (path),  or  highwaymen. 

smoke.     Discover. 

Old  Brentford  at  Christmas.  As  Strauss  notes,  "  Brentford,  eight  miles 
west  of  London,  divided  by  the  River  Brent  into  the  Old  and  New  towns, 
has  frequent  mention  in  literature  from  Shakspere  (Merry  Wives)  to 
Thackeray  (Miscellanies)^" 

catechise.  This  catechism  was  published  separately  under  the  title,  "  Love's 
Catechism  compiled  by  the  Author  of  the  Recruiting  Officer  for  the  use  and 
benefit  of  all  young  bachelors,  maids  and  widows  that  are  inclinable  to 
change  their  condition"  (1707).  Other  "single  sheets"  of  like  character 
were  popular  at  this  time. 

P.  171.  habit.    Dress. 

cephalic  plaster.    Plaster  for  headache. 

443 


NOTES 

P.  172.  Oroondates.  The  hero  of  Cassandra,  La  Calprenede's  heroical 
romance.  Cesario.  The  assumed  name  of  Viola  in  Twelfth  Night.  Amadis. 
The  hero  of  the  great  Spanish  romance  of  chivalry,  Amadis  of  Gaul,  so 
popular  at  the  time  of  the  Renaissance. 

P.  173.  quoif  clear-starched.  "A  close-fitting  cap,  stiffened  with  colorless 
starch."  (Temple.) 

Toftida.  Mrs.  Katherine  Tofts,  a  famous  opera  singer  of  the  day,  who 
had  sung  in  The  Recruiting  Officer. 

Will's  coffee-house  and  White's.  Macaulay  quotes  (History  of  England, 
chap,  iii)  this  reference  to  the  two  famous  coffee-houses  (both  of  which  are 
mentioned  by  Steele  in  the  first  number  of  The  Toiler  as  the  addresses  of 
his  papers)  and  comments:  "The  highwayman  held  an  aristocratical  position 
in  the  community  of  thieves,  appeared  at  fashionable  coffee-houses  and 
betted  with  men  of  quality  on  the  race-ground."  The  "  Sons  of  Will's " 
(Epilogue)  are  poets  and  men  of  letters.  (See  Archer's  song  in  III,  iii.) 

P.  174.  Teague.  A  traditional  nickname  for  Irishmen,  both  on  and  off 
the  stage — used  as  the  name  of  the  Irish  character  in  Farquhar's  The  Twin 
Rivals,  and  applied  in  a  satire  of  the  day  to  the  dramatist  himself.  The 
Mermaid  edition  cites  a  letter  on  "  Teague  "  and  his  "  brogue  "  by  Mr.  Albert 
Matthews  in  the  Nation  (New  York),  July  21,  1904. 

what  King  of  Spain,  This  was  the  time  of  the  War  of  the  Spanish  Suc- 
cession. 

P.  175.  Pressing  Act.  The  Recruiting  Officer  furnishes  an  admirable  com- 
mentary upon  the  Impressment  Acts  occasioned  during  Anne's  reign  by  the 
War  of  the  Spanish  Succession.  "  Such  able-bodied  men  as  have  not  any 
lawful  calling  or  employment  or  visible  means  for  their  maintenance  and 
livelihood  "  were  liable  to  be  enlisted. 

P.  176.  Sir  Simon  the  King.  A  popular  air  deriving  its  name  from  Simon 
Wadloe,  the  host  of  the  Devil's  Tavern  in  Ben  Jonson's  days.  This  tune 
was  the  favorite  of  Fielding's  Squire  Western. 

P.  177.  prevent.    Anticipate. 

P.  178.  Enter  Count  Bellair.  The  editions  of  1736  and  1760  have  this 
note :  "  This  scene,  with  the  entire  part  of  the  Count,  was  cut  out  by  the 
Author  after  the  first  night's  representation,  and  where  he  should  enter 
in  the  last  scene  of  Act  V,  it  is  added  to  the  part  of  Foigard." 

P.  182.  Cedunt  arma  togae.  "  Arms  yield  to  the  toga " — i.e.,  the  gown 
takes  precedence  over  the  sword.  Incongruous  on  the  lips  of  Scrub. 

Alexander's  battles.  Le  Brun's  famous  paintings  of  the  battles  of  Alex- 
ander the  Great  for  the  Gobelins  tapestries  of  Louis  XIV. 

a  greater  general.  Archer  compares  with  the  triumphs  of  Alexander  the 
recent  victories  of  Marlborough. 

P.  185.  Tom's.  The  coffee-house  of  Thomas  Eaton,  near  Will's  in  the 
Covent  Garden  neighborhood. 

Morris.    Yet  another  coffee-house,  mentioned  frequently  by  Farquhar. 

club  o'  th'  reckoning.    Each  one's  share  of  the  total  amount  of  the  bill. 

Steal  two  acts  of  a  play.  An  allusion  to  the  contemporary  custom  of  per- 
mitting the  playgoer  to  see  one  act  of  a  play  for  nothing. 

Tipperary  and  Kilkenny.  Famous  grammar  schools.  The  second  counted 
among  its  pupils  Swift  and  Congreve. 

P.  186.  This  picturesque  scene  between  innkeeper  and  highwaymen  was 
omitted  from  early  stage  versions  at  the  advice  of  Steele. 

a  Vigo  business.  The  great  victory  of  Vigo,  won  by  the  English  and 
Dutch  over  the  fleets  of  France  and  Spain  (October  12,  1702),  made  such  an 
impression  upon  Farquhar  that  he  described  it  at  length  in  his  epic,  Bar- 

444 


NOTES 

celona,  and  mentioned  it  often  in  his  plays.  "Abundance  of  plate  and  other 
valuables  fell  into  the  hands  of  the  conquerors." 

Tyburn.  The  famous  London  place  of  execution,  which  was  situated  near 
the  site  of  the  Marble  Arch. 

P.  187.  all-fours.     A  card-game,  "  High,  low,  Jack  and  the  game." 

P.  188.  Alcmena.  The  mother  of  Hercules  by  Jupiter,  who  took  the  form 
of  her  husband,  Amphitryon. 

P.  191.  Swiss.  An  allusion  to  the  Swiss  mercenaries,— celebrated  a  cen- 
tury later  for  their  defence  of  Louis  XVI,  and  memorialized  in  the  famous 
"  Lion  of  Lucerne." 

the  Eddystone.  The  first  lighthouse,  completed  in  1699,  was  destroyed  by 
the  terrible  storm  of  November  27,  1703. 

P.  193.  Garzoon.  The  Frenchman's  form  of  the  oath,  "Gadzoons!"  (cor- 
rupted from  "God's  wounds!"),  perhaps  under  the  influence  of  "  gargon." 

Charles,  Viscount  Aimwcll.  Farquhar  is  certainly  nodding  here,  as  Aim- 
well  is  elsewhere  called  "Tom"  (II,  ii ;  V,  iv). 

ombre.  See  Pope's  detailed  description  of  this  very  old  card-game  in 
The  Rape  of  the  Lock,  Canto  III. 

P.  194.  Leuctra.  "  Epaminondas  saved  his  Thebes  and  died"  (Byron)  in 
this  great  victory  over  the  forces  of  Sparta,  371  B.C. 

Sergeant  Kite.    A  prominent  character  in  The  Recruiting  Officer. 


CATO 

P.  200.  While  Cato  gives  his  little  senate  laws.    Later  Pope  turned  this 
line  against  Addison   ("  Epistle  to  Dr.  Arbuthnot,"  209-210)  : 
"  Like  Cato,  give  his  little  senate  laws 
And  sit  attentive  to  his  own  applause." 

P.  201.  Attend.  Altered  from  "arise"  in  deference  to  Addison's  fear  that 
this  would  be  misconstrued. 

The  dawn  is  overcast,  etc.  Hurd  notes  that  "  the  opening  of  the  drama 
is  too  solemn  and  declamatory;  the  author  speaks,  not  his  persona  dramatis" 

Pharsalia.  In  the  region  around  the  city  of  Pharsalus  in  Thessaly,  Caesar 
won  a  decisive  victory  over  the  army  of  Pompey.  (See  II,  i,  p.  208.) 

P.  202.  Utica.  This  city,  the  scene  of  our  play,  was  an  important  sea- 
coast  town  of  Africa,  northwest  of  Carthage.  From  it  Cato  derived  his 
name  of  "  Uticensis,"  as  it  was  the  stronghold  of  the  republican  party,  of 
which  he  was  now  leader. 

Numidian  prince.  Juba  I,  the  father  of  the  young  hero,  espoused  the 
cause  of  Pompey  in  his  contest  with  Cassar,  and  was  forced  by  the  conqueror 
to  forfeit  his  African  kingdom,  which  became  a  Roman  province. 

P.  204.  the  embattled  elephant.  In  their  first  battle  with  Pyrrhus,  the 
Romans  fled  terrified  before  the  elephants  of  the  enemy. 

Zama.  A  town  of  Numidia,  celebrated  for  Scipio's  victory  over  Hannibal 
(202  B.C.).  It  was  destroyed  by  the  Romans  after  the  death  of  Juba  I. 

P.  205.  He's  still  severely  bent  against  himself.  Plutarch  tells  us  of  Cato : 
"  He  employed  himself  in  inuring  his  body  to  labor  and  violent  exercise 
and  habituated  himself  to  go  bareheaded  in  the  hottest  and  coldest  weather, 
and  to  go  on  foot  at  all  seasons.  In  sickness  the  patience  he  showed  in 
supporting,  and  the  abstinence  he  used  for  curing  his  distemper,  were 
admirable." 

stoicism.     The    doctrine    of    the   school   of   philosophy    founded    by   Zeno 

445 


NOTES 

about  308  B.C.    "  The  Stoics  held  that  men  should  be  free  from  passion  and 
unsubdued  by  joy  or  grief." 

P.  206.    For  the  part  of  the  love-scenes  in  the  action,  see  Introduction. 

P.  207.  So  the  pure  limpid  stream,  etc.  The  older  critics  found  this 
simile  most  appropriate  in  the  mouth  of  a  Roman  lady,  accustomed  to  the 
sight  of  the  yellow  Tiber. 

Pp.  208-210.  The  indebtedness  of  these  two  scenes  to  the  "  Philippics " 
of  Cicero  has  been  generally  recognized. 

P.  208.  Scythia.  Used  here  as  in  Horace  to  indicate  the  uttermost  parts 
of  the  earth. 

P.  211.  Reduced  like  Hannibal,  etc.  For  several  years  before  Hannibal's 
suicide  by  poison  in  183  B.C.,  he  was  a  refugee  at  the  court  of  Bithynia. 

liberty  or  death.    Had  Patrick  Henry  read  Cato? 

P.  212.  Honor's  a  fine  imaginary  notion.  The  contrast  between  Syphax's 
view  of  honor  and  that  of  Juba  may  be  set  side  by  side  with  the  varying 
views  of  Falstaff  and  Prince  Hal  in  I  Henry  IV. 

ravished  Sabines.  The  story  of  the  rape  of  the  Sabine  women  during  the 
games  at  Rome  in  the  first  days  of  the  city  is  fiction  pure  and  simple. 

P.  213.  This  simile  of  Mount  Atlas  is,  as  Hurd  long  ago  remarked, 
fittingly  addressed  to  an  African,  Syphax.  Goldsmith  uses  a  similar  image 
in  "  The  Deserted  Village,"  189-190. 

P.  215.  stiffens,  yet  alive.  This  passage  in  its  original  form  was  objected 
to  by  Mrs.  Oldfield  and  was  changed,  at  Pope's  suggestion,  to  the  line,  as 
we  now  have  it.  (Spence's  Anecdotes.) 

P.  217.  the  envenomed  aspic's  rage.  Compare  Plutarch's  account  of  Cato's 
African  march :  "  He  had  likewise  in  his  train  some  of  the  people,  called 
Psylli,  who  obviate  the  bad  effect  of  the  bite  of  serpents  by  sucking  out  the 
poison ;  and  deprive  the  serpents  themselves  of  their  ferocity  by  their 
charms." 

the  long  laborious  march.  "  During  a  continued  march  for  seven  days, 
Cato  was  always  foremost,  though  he  made  use  of  neither  horse  nor 
chariot."  (Plutarch.) 

P.  218.  seized  of.  Having  in  his  possession.  This  is  still  the  sense  of  the 
phrase  in  law. 

P.  222.  the  self-devoted  Decii.  Three  Roman  leaders,  grandfather,  father 
and  son,  who  devoted  themselves  to  the  gods  Manes  for  the  safety  of  their 
country.  (B.C.  337,  296,  280.) 

the  Fabii.  There  were  four  great  Fabii,  all  soldiers  and  consuls — the  last 
and  greatest  being  Hannibal's  opponent.  The  great  Scipios.  At  least  a 
dozen  warriors  of  this  great  name  won  for  Rome  some  of  her  most  splendid 
triumphs. 

the  great  Censor.  M.  Porcius  Cato  (b.  232  B.C.),  often  called  "the  Elder" 
— to  distinguish  him  from  our  hero — celebrated  as  a  soldier  and  orator,  spent 
many  years  of  his  long  life  on  his  Sabine  farm,  which  he  had  inherited  from 
plebeian  ancestors.  His  treatise  on  "Agriculture"  (De  Re  Rustica)  is 
"  the  loose,  unconnected  journal  of  a  plain  farmer." 

P.  223.  This  scene  (V,  i)  is  in  close  accord  with  what  Plutarch  tells  us 
of  Cato's  end. 

P.  224.  just.     Here  the  early  quartos  read,  "  good." 

P.  225.  The  last  line  of  the  play  was  altered,  in  accord  with  Pope's  sug- 
gestion, from  its  first  form : 

"And  oh.   'twas   this   that   ended  Cato's   life!" 

"I  believe  that  Mr.  Addison  did  not  leave  a.  word  unchanged  that  I  objected 
to  in  his  Cato,"  said  Pope  to  Spence. 

446 


NOTES 


THE  CONSCIOUS  LOVERS 

P.  233.  Cymon.     See  Dryden's  Cymon  and  Iphigenia,  11.  216-225. 

give  herself  a  loose.    Give  full  vent  to  her  feelings. 

vails.    Gratuities  to  servants. 

P.  234.  put  upon.     Imposed  upon. 

The  Painted  Chamber.  A  lofty  and  narrow  room  in  the  old  Palace  of 
Westminster,  adjoining  the  old  House  of  Lords.  It  was  so  called  from  the 
paintings  on  the  walls,  representing  on  one  side  of  the  room  the  wars  of 
the  Maccabees  and  on  the  other  side  scenes  from  the  life  of  Edward  the 
Confessor.  (Besant's  Westminster,-  p.  49.) 

Court  of  Requests.  In  the  old  Palace  of  Westminster;  this  was  converted 
later  into  the  House  of  Lords. 

Nemine  contradic'ente.    Without  opposition. 

ridotto.  An  entertainment  or  social  assembly  consisting  of  music  and 
dancing.  It  was  introduced  into  England  in  1722,  the  year  of  our  play,  at 
the  Opera  House  in  the  Haymarket,  and  it  was  a  marked  feature  of  London 
social  life  during  the  eighteenth  century.  (N.  E.  D.) 

Belsize.  Belsize  House  was  the  forerunner  of  Ranelagh  and  Vauxhall. 
There  were  gardens  in  which  refreshments  could  be  obtained,  and  hunting, 
races,  etc.,  were  provided  to  amuse  the  visitors.  (Mermaid  Ed.) 

P.  235.  twire.    Leer. 

Crispo's  fate.     See  p.  243. 

P.  239.  natural.    A  half-witted  person. 

P.  242.  Crispo  or  Griselda.  Operas  by  G.  B.  Bononcini,  produced  in  1722, 
with  words  by  Rolli. 

P.  243.  Signor  Carbonelli.    A  violinist  then  in  high  favor. 

P.  245.  tenement.    Real  estate  held  of  another  on  any  tenure. 

P.  246.  liquorish.    Greedy. 

P.  248.  mansion  house.    The  dwelling  house. 

messuage.  A  dwelling  house  with  its  outbuildings  and  land  assigned  to 
its  use. 

P.  250.  advertisement.     Notification. 

P.  252.  cocker.    A  supporter  of  cock-fighting. 

P.  253.  And  while  abroad,  etc.  From  the  Prologue  to  Southerne's  Disap- 
pointment, or  The  Mother  in  Fashion.  11.  55-56. 

P.  254.  security.     Protection. 

P.  256.  table  book.     Memorandum  book. 

P.  257.  commode.    Accommodating,  in  a  bad  sense. 


THE  BEGGAR'S  OPERA 

P.  267.  two  most  excellent  ballad-singers.  In  his  Polly  Peachum,  Pearce 
advances  the  opinion  that  "  the  weight  of  hypothesis  as  to  the  origin  of  the 
musical  form  of  the  Opera  is  on  the  side  of  Gay's  familiarity  with  English 
ballad  singing,  while  the  popularity  of  ballads  with  people  of  every  degree 
ought  certainly  to  be  taken  into  account." 

The   similes    that   are   in    your   celebrated    Operas.     Addison    remarks    i 
Spectator,  No.  5:  "The  finest  writers  among  the  modern  Italians   ...   fill 
their  writings  with  such  poor  imaginations  and  conceits,  as  our  youths  are 
ashamed  of,  before  they  have  been  two  years  at  the  University." 

a  prison  scene,  which  the  ladies  always  reckon  charmingly  pathetic.       Per- 

447 


NOTES 

haps  Gay  had  in  mind  the  sentimental  scene  in  Newgate  prison  which  opens 
the  last  act  of  Steele's  Lying  Lover."     (Nettleton.) 

St.  Giles's.  An  almshouse  near  the  church  of  St.  Giles-in-the-Fields. 
"  Custom  had  established  yearly  festivals  for  the  ballad-singers  in  the  classic 
regions  of  St.  Giles's,  which  were  much  frequented  by  some  of  the  wits  of 
the  day — Swift,  Gay,  Bolingbroke,  Steele,  etc."  (Pearce.) 

except  our  wives.     Except  by  our  wives'  death. 

P.  268.  Newgate.  Newgate  Prison,  at  the  corner  of  Old  Bailey,  was  long 
the  principal  prison  of  London.  Here  were  confined  men  so  different  as 
Daniel  Defoe,  Jack  Sheppard,  Titus  Gates  and  William  Penn.  • 

P.  269.  Bagshot.  Bagshot,  like  Hounslow,  was  a  favorite  stamping-ground 
of  highwaymen  near  London.  Bagshot  and  Hounslow  are  Gibbet's  com- 
panions in  The  Beaux'  Stratagem. 

quadrille.  A  card-game  played  by  four  people, — described  at  length  by 
Hoyle.  Our  play  (I,  xiii,  p.  274)  attests  the  popularity  of  the  game  among 
women. 

Marybone.    Then  the  chief  gambling-hell  of  London   (cf.  p.  284). 

chap.  Probably  abbreviation  of  "  chapman,"  merchant — here  a  peddler 
(cf.  p.  285). 

P.  270.  since  I  was  pumpt.  Gay  thus  describes  the  fate  of  the  youthful 
pickpocket  (Trivia,  III,  74)  : 

"  Seized  by  rough  hands,  he's  dragged  amid  the  rout 
And  stretched  beneath  the  pump's  incessant  spout." 

Hockley  in  the  Hole.  A  famous  bear-garden,  "  a  place  of  no  small 
renown  for  the  gallantry  of  the  lower  order."  (Spectator.) 

The  Old  Bailey.  The  Criminal  Court  on  the  street  of  the  same  name, 
adjoining  Newgate.  At  68  Old  Bailey  lived  the  notorious  thief-catcher, 
Jonathan  Wild, — the  prototype  of  Peachum. 

the  ordinary's  paper.    The  chaplain's  report. 

Covent-garden.     Still  a  flower  and  vegetable  market. 

P.  272.  Drury  Lane.  "  Drury's  mazy  courts  and  dark  abodes "  ( Trivia, 
III,  260).  Cf.  II,  iii,  p.  275.  Goldsmith  in  She  Stoops  to  Conquer,  II,  i,  184 
(P-  33i)  refers  to  "the  Duchesses  of  Drury  Lane." 

fuller's  earth.  A  special  kind  of  earth  used  in  cleansing  and  thickening 
cloth. 

Nimming.  The  epithet,  derived  from  nim,  "  to  steal,"  recalls  Shakspere's 
Nym  (Henry  IV).  The  verb,  nim  (Anglo-Saxon,  niman,  "to  take"),  occurs 
later,  II,  x,  p.  280. 

P.  273.  /  see  him  already  in  the  cart,  etc.  The  passage  describes  the  senti- 
mental interest  created  by  the  passage  of  the  highwayman  in  his  cart  along 
Holborn  to  the  gallows-tree  at  Tyburn  (near  Marble  Arch). 

Jack  Ketch.  The  traditional  name  of  the  hangman,  derived  from  a  notori- 
ous executioner  (d.  1686). 

Pretty  Polly,  say.    Contemporary  parody  ran : 
"  Pretty  Polly,  say 
What  makes  Johnny  Gay 
To  call,  to  call  his  Newgate  scenes 
The  Beggar's  Opera  ?  " 

P.  274.  Air  XVI.  The  air,  "  Over  the  Hills  and  Far  Away,"  recalls  Far- 
quhar,  in  whose  Recruiting  Officer  it  appears  on  the  lips  of  Captain  Plume. 

otamys.     A  corruption  for  anatomies,  "  skeletons." 

P.  276.  //  music  be  the  food  of  love,  play  on.    From  Twelfth  Night,  I,  i,  I. 

lutestring.    Lustring,  glossy  silk  fabric. 

padesoy.    Or  paduasoy,  a  strong  corded  silk.     See  The  Rivals,  p.  368. 

448 


NOTES 

P.  278.  Air  XXVIII.  The  song,  "'Twas  when  the  sea  was  roaring,"  is 
Gay's  own  (cf.  What  d'ye  Call  It,  II,  viii). 

P.  279.  the  ordinary.  Clergyman  appointed  to  hold  service  for  condemned 
criminals.  Here,  the  prison  chaplain. 

P.  284.  lock.  "  A  cant  word  signifying  a  warehouse,  where  stolen  goods 
are  deposited."  (Gay's  own  note.) 

The  Coronation  account.  Statement  of  things  stolen  during  the  Coronation 
festivities  of  George  II  in  1727. 

P.  285.  Air  XLV.  "  Gay's  preference  for  similes,  derived  from  the 
animal  world,  is  explained  by  his  recently  composed  'Fables.'"  (Sarrazin.) 

the  mint.  The  mint  in  Southwark,  which  had  been  destroyed  by  act  of 
Parliament  five  years  before  the  date  of  our  play  (1723),  was  the  resort  of 
criminals.  Compare  the  name,  Matt  of  the  Mint. 

P.  290.  Ill,  x-vi.  In  like  manner  Fielding  discusses  the  fate  of  the  puppets 
of  his  burlesque,  Tom  Thumb  (p.  317).  The  scene  is  a  "palpable  hit  at  the 
conventional  happy  ending  of  sentimental  drama  and  opera."  (Nettleton.) 


TOM  THUMB 

The  following  plays  are  mentioned  in  Fielding's  footnotes  to  Tom  Thumb: 

Joseph  Addison's  Cato  (1713). 

John  Banks's  Albion  Queens,  formerly  known  as  The  Island  Queens,  or 
the  Death  of  Mary  Queen  of  Scots  (1684)  ;  Cyrus  the  Great,  or  The  Tragedy 
of  Love  (1696);  The  Earl  of  Essex  (1682);  Virtue  Betrayed,  or  Anna 
Bullen  (1682). 

John  Dennis's  Liberty  Asserted  (1704). 

John  Dryden's  All  for  Love  (1678)  ;  Aurengzebe  (1676)  ;  King  Arthur,  or 
The  British  Worthy  (1691);  Cleomenes  (1692);  Conquest  of  Granada 
(1670);  Don  Sebastian  (1690);  Duke  of  Guise  (1690);  Indian  Emperor 
(1667);  Love  Triumphant  (1694)  ;  Rival  Ladies  (1664)  ;  State  of  Innocence 
(1676). 

Edward  Ecclestone's  Noah's  Flood  (1679). 

Elijah  Fenton's  Mariamne  (1723)- 

Henry  Fielding's  The  Coffee-House  Politician  (1730). 

John  Fletcher's  Bloody  Brother  (1640). 

John  Gay's  Captives  (1724)- 

Charles  Johnson's  Medea  (1731);  Victim  (1714). 

Charles  Hopkins's  Female  Warrior  (1697). 

Nathaniel  Lee's  Lucius  Junius  Brutus  (1681)  ;  Casar  Borgia  (1680); 
Gloriana  (1676);  Mithridates  (1678);  Nero  (1678);  Sophonisba,  or  Han- 
nibal's Overthrow  (1676). 

David  Mallet's  Eurydice  (i73i)- 

-'Thomas  Otway's  Don  Carlos  (1676);  History  and  Fall  of  Caius  Manus 
X(i68o). 

Nicholas  Rowe's  Tamerlane  (1702). 

Nahum  Tate's  Injured  Love  (1707)- 

Lewis  Theobald's  Persian  Princess,  or  The  Royal  Villain  (1715)- 

James  Thomson's  Sophonisba  (1730),  here  called  The  New  Sophonisba. 
Jidward  Young's  Busiris  (1719)  ;  Revenge  (1721). 

P.  296.  H.  Scriblerus  Secundus.  Henry  (Fielding),  the  second  scribbler; 
in  imitation  of  Pope's  Prolegomena  of  Martinus  Scriblerus  attached  to  The 
Dunciad  in  1729. 

449 


NOTES 

P.  297.  birth-day  suit.  A  suit  worn  at  the  celebration  of  the  king's 
birthday. 

giants  in  Guildhall.  Two  wooden  figures  (i2l/2  feet  high)  carved  by 
Saunders  in  1708;  they  are  on  the  right  and  the  left  in  the  great  Hall  of 
Guildhall. 

Dr.  B y.    Richard  Bentley  (1662-1742),  the  most  famous  Greek  scholar 

of  hi?  day, — signally  unhappy  in  his  emendations  of  Paradise  Lost. 

Mr.  D s.    John  Dennis  (1657-1734),  a  heavy-handed  critic  of  the  works 

of  Addison,  Steele,  Rowe  and  others. 

Mr.  T d.    Lewis  Theobald  (1688-1744),  dramatist,  Shaksperean  editor, 

and  the  first  hero  of  Pope's  Dunciad. 

Mr.  S n.    Either  Nathaniel  Salmon  (1675-1742)  or  his  brother  Thomas 

(1679-1767),  both  historical  and  geographical  writers. 

Petrus  Burmannus.  A  distinguished  Dutch  scholar  (1668-1741),  professor 
of  Greek  and  politics  and  later  at  Leyden,  and  editor  of  many  classical  texts. 

Hermes  Trismegistus.  The  Egyptian  Thoth,  scribe  of  the  gods,  was  ac- 
credited with  the  authorship  of  all  the  strictly  sacred  books  generally  called 
by  Greek  authors,  Hermetic. 

Justus  Lipsius.  (1547-1606),  a  famous  Belgian  scholar,  professor  suc- 
cessively at  Jena,  Leyden  and  Louvain. 

Mr.  Midwinter.  The  supposititious  author  of  the  ballad  of  Tom  Thumb 
which  Wagstaffe  criticized  in  parody  of  Addison's  appreciation  of  the  ballad 
of  Chevy  Chase. 

Risum  . . .     You  should  restrain  your  laughter,  friends. 

P.  298.  Omne...  Every  greater  contains  the  less,  but  the  less  cannot 
contain  the  greater. 

Scaliger  in  Thumbo.  Joseph  Justus  Scaliger  (1540-1609),  a  great  Latin 
and  Greek  scholar.  This  work  is,  of  course,  an  invention  of  Fielding's. 

P.  299.  arrack.  An  eastern  name  for  any  native  spirituous  liquor. 
"  Rack "  immediately  below  is  the  same  word. 

P.  300.  Mr.  W Warburton,  perhaps. 

That  is  pas'.    That  is  certain,  positive. 

P.  302.  Monmouth-street..  .A  London  street  where  second-hand  clothes 
were  bought  and  sold. 

.^"303.     Aristotle.     See  the  Poetics,  XXI  and  XXII,  for  a  discussion  of 
diction. 

Tothill  Bridewell.  A  prison  in  the  City  for  disreputable  women.  Cf.  The 
Way  of  the  World,  V,  i,  p.  149. 

Bajaset.    A  character  in  Rowe's  Tamerlane. 

P.  304.  O  Tom  Thumb...  Otway's  "Oh!  Marius..."  is  but  Shakspere's 
"Oh,  Romeo,  Romeo..."  (R.  and  J.,  II,  ii,  33.) 

Bantam.  The  bantam  is  to  other  fowls  as  Tom  Thumb  to  other  men; 
hence  the  satirical  allusion  to  "  mighty  Bantam,"  a  purely  fictitious  character. 

King  of  Brentford.  The  kings  of  Brentford  are  burlesque  characters  in 
The  Rehearsal.  (See  note  to  The  Beaux'  Stratagem,  II,  ii,  p.  170.) 

P.  305.  lead  apes  in  hell.  As  unmarried  women  were  compelled  to  do 
when  they  reached  the  other  world.  (Cf.  Much  Ado,  II,  i,  43,  49  f.) 

P.  306.  durgen.    Dwarf. 

P.  307.  Doctors'  Commons.  Buildings  (in  which  certain  courts  were 
held)  of .  former  College  of  Doctors  of  Civil  Law  in  London.  Here  marriage 
licenses  were  obtained.  (See  note  to  The  Beaux'  Stratagem,  II,  i,  p.  167.) 

Fleet.  Clandestine  marriages  were  performed  by  disreputable  parsons  in 
the  Fleet  district  about  Ludgate  Hill. 

tdmatches.    Pieces  of  card  dipped  in  melted  sulphur. 

450 


NOTES 

P.  308.  Mr.  L .    Nathaniel  Lee,  the  author  of  Sophonisba. 

P.  309.  Curae . . . 

"  Light  cares  can  freely  speak; 
Great  cares  heart  rather  break." 

(Florio's  translation  in  Montaigne's  Essays,  I,  ii.) 
The  quotation  is  taken  from  Seneca's  Hippolytus,  Act  II,  scene  ii. 

The  Egyptian  king.  The  story  is  told  in  Montaigne's  Essays,  Book  I, 
chap,  ii,  ''  Of  Sadness  or  Sorrow." 

Battle.    A  variant  of  "  bottle,"  a  bundle. 
fMr.  F .    Fielding. 

P.  310.  My  Huncamunca. . .     Compare  also  Much  Ado,  III,  ii,  109,  no. 

P.  311.  M.  Dacier.  (1651-1722).  With  his  wife,  the  editor  of  a  series  of 
ancient  texts  for  the  use  of  the  dauphin.  He  translated  and  annotated 
Horace. 

Te  premet...  "  Night  presses  down  upon  thee  and  the  storied  (or  unsub- 
stantial) ghosts."  (Horace,  Odes,  I,  iv,  16.) 

Nee  quidquam...  "Nor  was  there  anything  more  wonderful  in  that  than 
a  certain  awful  ghost,  which  I  should  far  prefer  to  all  other  spectres 
in  which  English  tragedy  abounds"  (I  speak  with  the  permission  of  the 
very  learned  Dionysius  V). 

P.  312.  Red  Sea.  "Ghosts  least  like  to  be  laid  in  the  Red  Sea."  (See 
Brand's  Popular  Antiquities,  III,  72.) 

P.  314.  Credat  Judccus  Apella,  etc.  "  Apella,  the  Jew,  may  believe  it,  not 
I."  (Horace,  Satires,  I,  v,  100-101.) 


SHE  STOOPS  TO  CONQUER 

P.  323.  Title.  The  second  title  of  the  play,  The  Mistakes  of  a  Night, 
was  originally  the  only  one ;  but,  as  this  was  felt  to  be  undignified  for 
comedy,  others  were  suggested:  The  Old  House,  a  New  Inn;  The  Belle's 
Stratagem  by  Joshua  Reynolds.  Finally  Goldsmith,  recalling  Dryden's  line, 
"  But  kneels  to  conquer,  and  but  stoops  to  rise,"  hit  upon  the  present  appro- 
priate name. 

P.  324.  'Tis  not  alone  this  mourning  suit.  A  reminiscence  of  Hamlet, 
I,  ii,  77  f. 

Shuter . . .  Poor  Ned.  References  to  Edward  Shuter,  who  played  Mr. 
Hardcastle.  Woodward,  who  recited  the  Prologue,  had  refused  the  part  of 
Tony,  which  fell  to  Quick. 

a  mawkish  drab.  The  description  of  sentimental  comedy  as  "  a  mawkish 
drab  of  spurious  breed"  shows  Garrick's  reaction  against  a  type  of  play 
that  he  had  once  heartily  approved. 

P.  325.  basket.  A  receptacle  for  luggage  at  the  back  of  stage-coaches, 
used  occasionally  for  the  conveyance  of  passengers.  See  also  V,  ii  (p.  348). 

Prince  Eugene.  Eugene  of  Savoy  was  Marlborough's  ally  in  the  War  of 
the  Spanish  Succession.  (Compare  Southey's  ballad,  "The  Battle  of  Blen- 
heim.") 

Darby ...  Joan.  These  traditional  types  of  married  bliss  were  the  subjects 
of  an  eighteenth-century  song. 

he  fastened  my  wig,  etc.  This  joke  was  played  by  Lord  Clare's  daughter 
upon  Goldsmith  himself. 

P.  327.  Would  it  were  bed-time,  etc.  A  reminiscence  of  Falstaffs  speech, 
(i  Henry  IV,  V,  i,  125.) 

451 


NOTES 

Song.  Tony's  composition  of  this  admirable  song  hardly  seems  consistent 
with  his  illiteracy,  as  Dobson  has  pointed  out. 

P.  328.  pigeon.    A  gull,  a  dupe. 

low.    See  Introduction. 

Water  Parted.    A  song  in  Arne's  opera  of  Artaxerxes,  1762. 

the  minuet  in  Ariadne.  At  the  end  of  the  overture  of  this  opera  by 
Handel. 

woundily.    Excessively. 

we  wanted  no  ghost.    Suggested  by  Hamlet,  I,  v,  125. 

P.  329.  trapesing.  From  trapes,  "  a  sloven,"  "  a  slattern,"  used  as  the 
name  of  one  of  the  worst  of  the  women  in  The  Beggar's  Opera. 

find  out  the  longitude.  A  scientific  inquiry  of  the  time,  finally  solved  by 
John  Harrison,  who  received  in  the  very  year  of  Goldsmith's  play  (1773) 
his  reward  of  £20,000. 

//,  t.  Hardcastle's  drilling  of  the  servants  recalls  a  well-known  scene  in 
The  Taming  of  the  Shrew  (IV,  i).  The  Temple  editor  compares  the  drilling 
by  Sables  of  the  undertaker's  men  in  Steele's  comedy,  The  Funeral,  which 
is  supposed  to  have  furnished  Goldsmith  a  hint  of  Young  Marlow  in  its 
character  of  Lord  Hardy. 

P.  330.  Quid  Grouse  in  the  gun-room.     A  story  that  no  one  has  yet  traced. 

Wauns.    A  corruption  for  "  swounds  "  or  "  God's  wounds." 

P.  331.  duchesses  of  Drury  Lane.  Such  ladies  as  those  in  The  Beggar's 
Opera.  (II,  iii,  p.  275.) 

Denain.    Here  the  French  won  a  victory  over  the  Allies  in  1712. 

P.  332.  Heyder  Ally.  Sultan  of  Mysore  (1717-1782).  Ally  Cawn.  Sultan 
of  Bengal.  Ally  Croaker.  A  popular  Irish  ditty. 

Westminster  Hall.  In  Goldsmith's  day,  and  for  a  century  later  (until 
1882),  the  scene  of  the  Law  Courts. 

the  battle  of  Belgrade.    Here  the  Turks  were  beaten,  August  16,  1717. 

pruin.    Prune. 

P-  333-  norentine.  "  A  made  dish  of  minced  meats,  currants,  spices,  eggs, 
etc.,  baked."  A  shaking  pudding.  A  jelly. 

taffeta  cream.    A  dish  suggesting  the  thin  glossy  silk  called  taffeta. 

the  laws  of  marriage.  This  reference  to  the  Royal  Marriage  Act  of  1772, 
which  prevented  the  legal  marriage  of  the  Duke  of  Gloucester  and  Lady 
Waldegrave,  was  greeted  with  loud  applause. 

P-  335-  Kanelagh,  St.  James  or  Tower  Wharf.  The  humor  of  Hastings' 
references  to  London  localities,  like  those  of  Mrs.  Hardcastle  in  the  next 
speech,  lies  in  the  jumble  of  fashionable  resorts  and  places  of  low  repute. 
Tower  Wharf  and  The  Borough  (Southwark)  are  social  leagues  away  from 
Ranelagh  gardens  at  Chelsea,  or  the  Pantheon  on  Oxford  Street. 

the  Scandalous  Magazine.  The  Town  and  Country  Magazine,  then  cele- 
brated for  its  Tete-d-Tete  portraits.  See  The  School  for  Scandal,  I,  i,  p.  398. 

since  inoculation  began.  Inoculation  was  introduced  into  England  from 
Turkey  in  1721. 

Gothic.    Barbarous. 

P.  336.  crack.    Lie. 

Quincy.  The  author  of  a  Complete  English  Dispensatory,  very  popular 
in  the  eighteenth  century. 

P-  337-  Anon.    What  do  you  say? 

mauvaise  honte.     Shamefacedness. 

Bully  Dawson.  A  Whitefriars  ruffian,  whom  Sir  Roger  "  kicked  in  a  public 
coffee-house  for  calling  him  youngster."  (Spectator,  No.  2.) 

P.  338.  Morrice.     Off  with  you ! 

452 


NOTES 

marcasites.  A  mineral,  much  in  use  for  ornaments  at  this  time,  and  closely 
resembling  gold  or  silver  ore. 

table-cut.    With  flat  surfaces. 

P-  339-  Cherry.  For  Goldsmith's  indebtedness  to  Farquhar,  see  Intro- 
duction. 

P.  340.  The  Lion,  etc.  These  are  common  names  of  inn-rooms.  Cf.  The 
Beaux'  Stratagem,  I,  i,  p.  163. 

the  Ladies'  Club.  Goldsmith  had  in  mind  "  the  Female  Coterie  "  of  Albe- 
marle  Street. 

P.  341.  Miss  Biddy  Buckskin.  Her  original  was  a  friend  of  Walpole  and 
a  member  of  the  Ladies'  Club,  Miss  Rachel  Lloyd. 

/  never  nicked  seven,  etc.  I  never  bet  on  seven,  that  I  did  not  throw  both 
aces  (ames-ace),  the  lowest  throw  upon  the  dice,  three  times — i.e.,  I  always 
played  in  hard  luck. 

would  discover  my  name.  Is  not  Goldsmith  nodding  here?  Hardcastle 
already  knows  Hastings'  name  (II,  i,  204). 

P.  343.  liberty  and  Fleet  Street.  "  Suggested  by  the  then  popular  cry  of 
'  Wilkes  and  Liberty.'"  (Dobson.) 

the   Rake's   Progress...     Hogarth's    celebrated   engravings,   published   in 

1735- 

P.  344.  The  Dullissimo  Maccaroni.  The  London  maccaronis  or  fops  of 
the  day  were  caricatured  in  prints,  sold  in  all  the  shops.  See  the  reference 
to  the  name  in  "Yankee  Doodle."  Cf.  The  School  for  Scandal,  II,  ii,  p.  405. 

haspicholls.    A  popular  vulgarism  for  harpsichords. 

P-  345-  feeder.    Cock  feeder. 

P.  346.  baskets.     Single-sticks  with  basket-hilts. 

P.  348.  rabbit.     Humble  (<  Fr.  rabattre). 

P.  352.  We  have  our  exits,  etc.    Taken  from  As  You  Like  It,  II,  vii,  141. 

Nancy  Dawson.     A  popular  song  of  the  day. 

Che  faro.    The  opening  words  of  an  air  in  Gluck's  opera  of  Orfeo,  1764. 

Heinel.    A  Prussian  danseuse,  a  popular  favorite  in  this  year. 

spadille.    The  ace  of  spades,  high  card  in  ombre  and  quadrille. 

Bayes.  Character  in  Buckingham's  Rehearsal  representing  Dryden,  the 
laureate.  Here  used  as  a  synonym  of  "  dramatist." 

Second  Epilogue.  "This  came  too  late  to  be  spoken."  (Note  in  First  Edi- 
tion.) The  writer,  Joseph  Cradock  of  Gumley,  was  a  warm  friend  of 
Goldsmith.  Two  other  epilogues,  one  representing  a  quarrel  between  Mrs. 
Bulkley,  who  played  Miss  Hardcastle,  and  Mrs.  Catley,  were  drawn  up  by 
Goldsmith,  but  were  never  used. 

Sadler's  Wells.    A  pleasure  garden  at  Islington  near  the  New  River  Head. 


THE  RIVALS 

Our  text  of  The  Rivals  follows  the  first  edition  of  1775,  reproduced  by 
Adams  in  1910.  (See  Bibliography.) 

P.  360.  The  poet's  brief  again.  The  play  revised  and  produced  after  its 
failure  on  its  first  presentation  ten  days  before. 

P.  361.  Cast.    Overthrow  in  a  lawsuit. 

amend  our  plea.    Revise  our  play. 

sons  of  Phoebus.     Poets. 

the  Fleet.    The  famous  debtors'  prison  in  London. 

No  writ. .  .Drury-lane.  There  is  no  appeal  through  writ  of  error  from 
this  theater,  Covent  Garden,  to  the  other  one,  Drury-lane. 

453 


NOTES 

newsman.     Newspaper  reporter. 

P.  362.  this  form.  The  figure  of  Comedy  on  one  side  of  the  proscenium 
in  the  Covent  Garden  Theatre ;  on  the  other  side  was  the  figure  of  Tragedy. 

Pilgrim's  Progress. .  .rue.  The  emblems  of  moral  purpose  and  repentance, 
which  dominate  the  sentimental  tragedy. 

Woodward... Green.    Actors  in  the  performance  of  the  revised  play. 

their  favorite.    The  figure  of  Tragedy. 

P.  363.  Odd's.    God's. 

Z ds.    Zounds,  a  contraction  for  God's  wounds. 

P.  364.  thread-papers.  Strips  of  thin,  soft  paper  folded  in  creases  so  as  to 
form  separate  divisions  for  different  skeins  of  thread.  (N.  E.  D.) 

a  set  of  thousands.  A  team  of  usually  six  horses  costing  thousands  of 
pounds. 

mart.    A  great  deal. 

High-roomians  and  Low-roomians.  Patrons  respectively  of  the  Upper  and 
the  Lower  Rooms  of  the  Bath  Assemblies,  between  which  at  this  time  there 
was  considerable  rivalry. 

Pump-Room.  The  Room  where  all  Bath  met  to  drink  the  mineral  waters 
and  to  gossip. 

ton.    Style. 

ta'en  to  his  carrots.    Appears  in  his  own  red  hair. 

bob.     A  wig  with  short  curls. 

Gyde's  Porch.    The  Lower  Rooms  kept  by  Mr.  Gyde. 

Mr.  Bull.    A  Bath  bookseller  in  1785.    (Nettleton.) 

Mr.  Frederick.     A  Bath  bookseller. 
_•  364-366.     Lydia  Languish's  Books. 

The  Reward  of  Constancy.  Conjectured  by  Nettleton  to  be  identical  with 
The  Happy  Pair;  or  Virtue  and  Constancy  Rewarded.  A  novel  by  Mr. 
Shebbeare,  c.  1771. 

The  Fatal  Connection.    A  novel  by  Mrs.  Fogerty  (1773). 

The  Mistakes  of  the  Heart;  or,  Memoirs  of  Lady  Caroline  Pelham  and 
Lady  Victoria  Nevil.  By  Treyssac  de  Vergy  (1769). 

The  Delicate  Distress.    A  novel  in  letters  by  Mrs.  Griffith  (1769). 

The  Memoirs  of  Lady  Woolford.  Written  by  herself  and  addressed  to  a 
friend  (1771). 

The  Gordian  Knot.  A  novel  in  letters  by  Mr.  Griffith,  the  husband  of  the 
author  of  The  Delicate  Distress  above  (1769). 

Peregrine  Pickle  and  Humphry  Clinker.  Novels  by  Tobias  Smollett,  the 
former  1751,  the  latter  1771.  Peregrine  Pickle  includes  The  Memoirs  of  a 
Lady  of  Quality. 

The  Tears  of  Sensibility.  Novels  translated  from  the  French  of  M. 
D'Armaud  by  John  Murdoch  (1773). 

The  Sentimental  Journey.     By  Laurence  Sterne  (1768). 

The  Whole  Duty  of  Man.  Of  uncertain  authorship  (1660).  A  new  and 
revised  edition  was  extensively  advertised  in  1773. 

Roderick  Random.    By  Tobias  Smollett  (1748). 

The  Innocent  Adultery.  A  translation  of  Paul  Scarron's  L'Adultere  Inno- 
cente  (1722). 

Lord  Aimworth.  The  History  of  Lord  Aimworth  and  the  Honorable 
Charles  Hanford,  Esq.,  in  a  series  of  letters  (1773). 

The  Man  of  Feeling.     By  Henry  Mackenzie  (1771). 

Mrs.  Chap  one:  Letters  on  the  Improvement  of  the  Mind.  Addressed  to 
a  Young  Lady.  By  Mrs.  Chapone  (1773). 

Fordyce's  Sermons.    Sermons  to  Young  Women  (1765). 

454 


NOTES 

Lord  Chesterfield's  Letters.  Letters  written  by  the  Earl  of  Chesterfield  to 
his  son,  Philip  Stanhope,  published  by  Mrs.  Eugenia  Stanhope  (1774).  Net- 
tleton  has  done  more  than  any  other  editor  in  identifying  the  books  in 
Lydia's  library. 

P.  365.  blonds.  A  silk  lace  of  two  threads,  twisted  and  formed  in 
hexagonal  meshes.  (N.  E.  D.) 

rout.    A  large  evening  party  or  reception. 

P.  368.  paduasoy.  Strong  corded  silk  fabric  much  worn  in  the  eighteenth 
century. 

pocket-pieces.    Coins  carried  in  the  pocket  as  a  charm. 

disbanded  chairmen.  Unemployed  bearers  of  Sedan  chairs  or  wheelers  of 
invalid  chairs. 

minority  -waiters.     Probably  waiters  out  of  work.     (Adams.) 

P.  369.  reversion.     The  right  of  ultimate  succession  to  an  estate. 

P.  370.  the  German  Spa.  Spa  is  a  watering-place  in  Belgium  near  the 
German  border;  it  was  at  the  height  of  its  fame  in  the  eighteenth  century. 
(See  The  School  for  Scandal,  II,  ii,  p.  407.) 

squallante. .  .quiver ante.     Burlesque  Italian  musical  terms. 

minnums  and  crochets.    Half-notes  and  quarter-notes. 

Go,  gentle  gales.    The  refrain  of  The  Faithful  Lover,  given  in  Clio  and 
Euterpe,  or  British  Harmony  (1762),  vol.  iii,  p.  i: 
"  Go,  gentle  gales, 
Go,  bear  my  sighs  away; 

And  to  my  love 
The  tender  notes  convey." 

(Nettleton.) 

My  heart's  my  own.    A  song  in  Isaac  Bickerstaffe's  Love  in  a  Village,  I,  i. : 
"  My  heart's  my  own,  my  will  is  free, 

And  so  shall  be  my  voice; 
No  mortal  man  shall  wed  with  me, 
Till  first  he's  made  my  choice." 

(Nettleton.) 

P.  371.  race-ball.     A  dance  held  in  connection  with  the  races. 

looby.    A  lubberly  fellow,  a  lout. 

frogs  and  tambours.  Frogs  were  military  coat  fastenings  of  spindle- 
shaped  buttons  and  loops;  tambours  are  embroidered  stuffs. 

P-  373-  Bull  in  Coxe's  Museum.  "  The  Curious  Bull "  was  one  of  the. 
mechanical  curiosities  exhibited  in  Bath  in  1773-4  by  Mr.  Coxe,  a  London 
jeweller. 

turnspit.     A  long-bodied,  short-legged  dog  formerly  used  to  turn  the  spit. 

P.  376.  the  Grove.  The  Orange  grove  near  the  Parades,  so  named  from 
the  Prince  of  Orange. 

P-  379-  doubt.     Suspect. 

P.  380.  an'.     If. 

monkeyrony.     David's  pronunciation  of  "  maccaroni,"  a  dandy. 

Oons.    God's  wounds.    Cf.  Zounds. 

balancing  and  chasing  and  boring.    Steps  in  dancing.     (Adams.) 

coupee.  A  dance  step  formerly  much  used ;  the  dancer  rests  on  one  foot 
and  passes  the  other  forward  or  backward,  making  a  sort  of  salutation.  (N. 
E.  D.) 

P.  381.  Allemandes.     German  dances. 

we  wear  no  swords  here.  The  Bath  regulations  against  duelling  were  so 
strict  that  no  swords  were  allowed  to  be  worn  in  public.  (Cf.  V,  ii,  i.) 

the  new  room.    The  new  assembly  rooms  were  opened  in  1771. 

455 


NOTES 

pinchbeck.    An  alloy  of  copper  and  zinc  used  in  cheap  jewelry. 
"/  could  do  such  deeds."    A  misquotation  probably  of  Lear's  "I  will  do 
such  things."     (II,  iv,  283.) 

P.  382.  King's  Mead-fields.  An  extensive  meadow  to  the  west  of  the 
city.  (Adams.) 

sharps  and  snaps.    Swords  and  pistols  used  in  duelling. 
P.  384.  What  Hamlet  says: 

"  Hyperion  curls,  the  front  of  Jove  himself, 
An  eye  like  Mars,  to  threaten  and  command ; 
A  station  like  the  herald  Mercury 
New-lighted  on  a  heaven-kissing  hill." 

(Ill,  iv,  56-59.) 

P.  385.  Bedlam.  A  corruption  of  St.  Mary  of  Bethlehem,  the  famous 
London  hospital  for  the  insane. 

Youth's  the  season,  etc.    See  Gay's  Beggar's  Opera,  II,  iv. 
P.  386.  still.    Always. 

P.  387.  Spring' Gardens.  A  pleasure  resort  on  the  east  bank  and  on  the 
other  side  of  the  river  from  the  city. 

P.  388.  not  unsought  be  won.     Milton's  Paradise  Lost,  viii,  502-503 : 
"  Her  virtue,  and  the  conscience  of  her  worth, 

That  would  be  wooed,  and  not  unsought  be  won." 

P.  390.  Smithfield  bargain.  A  sharp  or  roguish  bargain ;  also,  a  marriage 
of  interest  in  which  money  is  the  chief  consideration.  (N.  E.  D.)  Smith- 
field  was  formerly  a  cattle  market. 

Scotch  parson.  Eloping  couples  could  more  easily  be  married  in  Scotland 
than  in  England. 

P-  39i-  fire-office.  Really  a  fire-insurance  office,  "  but  here,  of  course,  mis- 
used by  David  in  a  way  worthy  of  Mrs.  Malaprop."  (Nettleton.) 

putrefactions.  For  petrifactions,  which  were  found  abundantly  in  Derby- 
shire. 

sword  . . .  Bath.  See  note  on  III,  iv,  p.  381. 
P.  393.  Abbey.  The  abbey  church  of  Bath. 
P.  396.  cit.  Citizen. 


THE  SCHOOL  FOR  SCANDAL 

Our  text  follows  Sheridan's  manuscript  of  The  School  for  Scandal,  as 
printed  in  the  editions  of  Rae  and  Nettleton.  (See  Bibliography.) 

P.  397.  vapors.    Low  spirits. 

quantum  sufficit.    As  much  as  suffices. 

sal  volatile.    An  aromatic  solution  taken  for  faintness. 

poz.    Slang  for  "  positive." 

dash  and  star.    Used  instead  of  names  in  scandalous  news  items. 

P.  398.  Dramatis  Persona.  The  part  of  "Miss  Verjuice"  was,  in  later 
versions,  merged  in  that  of  "  Snake."  "  Spunge  "  became  at  once  "  Trip." 

Lappet.    This  part  of  the  Maid  is  withdrawn  in  later  versions. 

demirep.    A  woman  of  suspected  reputation. 

a  Tete-a-Tete. .  .Magazine.  The  Tete-a-Tete  column  in  The  Town  and 
Country  Magazine,  or  Useful  Repository  of  Knowledge,  Instruction,  and 
Entertainment,  was  devoted  to  accounts  of  scandals  in  fashionable  society. 
(See  She  Stoops  to  Conquer,  II,  i,  p.  335.) 

P.  399-  execution.    Seizure  of  goods  in  default  of  payment. 

P.  401.  Petrarch's. .  .Sacharissa.    Laura  was  the  object  of  Petrarch's  (1304- 

456 


NOTES 

verses>    and    Sacharissa    (Lady    Dorothy    Sidney)    of    Waller's 

P.  402.  Tunbridge.  Tunbridge  Wells,  a  pleasure  resort  about  thirty-five 
miles  southeast  of  London. 

Old  Jewry.  A  London  street  in  the  heart  of  the  City,  so  named  from  the 
Synagogue  which  stood  here  prior  to  the  persecution  of  the  Jews  in  1201 
(Baedeker.) 

Tontine.  A  tontine  is  an  annuity  shared  by  subscribers  to  a  loan  the 
shares  increasing  as  the  subscribers  die  till  the  last  survivor  gets  all.'  In 
1773  the  great  increase  of  the  Irish  national  debt  led  to  the  establishment  of 
the  Tontine  Annuities  and  Stamp  Duties  by  which  immediate  needs  were  met. 

doubt.     Rather  think,  suspect. 

P.  404.  the  Pantheon.    A  concert  hall  in  Oxford  Street. 

Fete  Champetre.    An  open-air  fete  or  festival. 

tambour.  A  circular  frame  on  which  silk  or  the  like  is  stretched  to  be 
embroidered. 

Pope  Joan.  A  card-game  which  survives  to-day  in  a  modified  form  as 
New  Market. 

fly  cap.  A  kind  of  head-dress  resembling  an  overgrown  butterfly  with 
outstretched  wings. 

Vis-a-vis.    A  kind  of  carriage  in  which  persons  sit  facing  each  other. 

P.  405.  rid  on  hurdles.  Condemned  criminals  rode  on  carts  to  their  place 
of  execution. 

clippers  of  reputation.  The  allusion  is  to  those  who  clipped  the  edges  of 
coins. 

High  park.     Hyde  Park. 

macaronies.  Dandies.  The  quatrain  was  taken  from  some  earlier  verses, 
which  are  given  in  Fraser  Rae's  Life,  I,  330-331. 

Phoebus.    As  the  god  of  poetry. 

P.  406.  the  Ring.  A  fashionable  drive  round  an  enclosed  space  in  Hyde 
Park  about  350  yards  in  length. 

P.  407.  Spa.    See  note  on  The  Rivals,  II,  i,  p.  370. 

Law  Merchant.    Mercantile  law. 

P.  408.  Cicisbeo.    A  gallant  in  attendance  upon  a  married  lady. 

P.  409.  jet.     The  real  point,  the  gist. 

"A  tear. .  .charity."  Quoted  from  2  Henry  IV,  IV,  iv,  81-82.  The  original 
has  "  open  as  day." 

P.  410.  Crutched  Friars.  A  street  near  the  Tower  of  London,  named  after 
the  convent  of  the  Crossed  or  Crouched  Friars. 

P.  411.  annuity  bill.  A  bill  was  passed  in  May,  1777,  "providing  that  all 
contracts  with  minors  for  annuities  shall  be  void,  and  that  those  procuring 
them  and  solicitors  charging  more  than  ten  shillings  per  cent,  shall  be 
subject  to  fine  or  imprisonment."  (Matthews.) 

P.  413.  Bags.  A  small  silken  pouch  to  contain  the  back  hair  of  the  wig. 
(N.  E.  D.) 

throws  off  faster.  Nobody  discards  faster  from  his  wardrobe.  (Net- 
tleton.) 

mortgage . . .  post-obit.  Legal  terms  that  Charles's  servant  would  be 
familiar  with. 

point.  Point-lace. 

hazard.     A  game  of  chance  with  dice. 

P.  415.  bough-pots.     Pots  for  holding  flowers  or  boughs. 

P.  416.  race-cups  and  corporation-bowls.  Cups  won  at  races  and  bowls 
given  by  the  Corporation  of  the  city. 

457 


NOTES 

P.  417.  What  do  you  bid?  Part  of  the  fun  of  this  auction  scene  lies  in 
the  fact  that  the  auction  is  a  farce,  since  there  is  only  one  bidder,  who  with 
only  one  exception  accepts  the  price  set  on  the  pictures. 

Kneller.  A  famous  portrait  painter  (1646-1723)  of  royal  and  noble  per- 
sonages. 

woolsack.  The  cushion  on  which  the  Lord  Chancellor  sits  in  the  House 
of  Lords ;  here  applied  to  the  law  generally. 

P.  419.  Draw  that  screen,  etc.  When  Lady  Teazle  later  hides  behind  the 
screen,  she  will,  of  course,  expose  herself  to  the  "  maiden  lady  of  so  curious 
a  temper." 

P.  424.  Sir  Peter,  etc.  Charles's  speech  is  not  so  heartless  as  it  seems  at 
first  sight,  for  he  believes  that  everyone  present  has  been  guilty  of  dissimula- 
tion while  he  has  been  acting  innocently.  The  situation  is  penetrated  with 
a  very  grim  humor  on  the  verge  of  tragedy,  just  as  Lady  Teazle  has  been 
on  the  verge  of  her  own  moral  destruction. 

P.  425.  rupees,  pagodas.  A  rupee  is  equal  to  two  shillings,  a  pagoda  to 
about  seven. 

avadavats.  The  more  usual  form  is  "  amadavat,"  an  Indian  song  bird 
brown  in  color  with  white  spots.  (N.  E.  D.) 

Indian  crackers.  Indian  fire-crackers  "  tastefully  got  up  with  colored 
paper."  (Notes  and  Queries,  6th  Series,  II,  199.) 

P.  427.  thrust  in  second.  "  A  term  in  fencing  for  '  a  thrust,  parry,  or 
other  movement  downward  toward  the  left.'"  (Nettleton.) 

Montem.  "  The  montem  was  a  triennial  ceremony  of  the  boys  at  Eton, 
abolished  only  in  1847.  It  consisted  of  a  procession  to  a  mound  (ad  montem) 
near  the  Bath  road,  where  they  exacted  money  from  those  present  and 
from  all  passersby.  The  sum  collected,  sometimes  nearly  £1,000,  went  to 
the  captain  or  senior  scholar,  and  served  to  pay  his  expenses  at  the  uni- 
versity." (Matthews.) 

P.  430.  A.  B.'s  at  the  coffee-house.  Cf.  the  modern  practice  of  giving 
initials  in  advertisements  to  be  answered  by  addressing  to  the  care  of  the 
newspaper  office. 

P.  431.  sold  me  judges,  etc.    Sir  Oliver  repeats  himself  from  IV,  ii. 

P.  432.  Mr.  Colman.  George  Colman,  proprietor  of  the  Haymarket 
Theatre  and  writer  of  plays. 

Bayes.  The  name  given  to  the  caricature  of  Dryden  in  Buckingham's 
Rehearsal,  a  burlesque,  like  Sheridan's  Critic,  of  extravagant  fashions  in  the 
drama.  Here  it  is  synonymous  with  dramatist  or  poet,  as  in  the  Epilogue 
to  She  Stoops  to  Conquer. 

P-  433-    loo.     An   eighteenth-century  card-game. 

vole.    Winning  of  all  tricks  in  the  game. 

Seven's  the  main.  In  the  game  of  hazard  the  main  is  the  number  (from 
5  to  9)  called  by  the  caster  before  he  throws  the  dice. 

hot  cockles.  A  game  in  which  one  person  lay  or  knelt  down  with  his  eyes 
covered  and  on  being  struck  by  the  others  in  turn  guessed  who  struck  him. 

Farewell,  etc.    A  parody  on  Othello's  "  Farewell,"  III,  iii,  347-357. 

card  drums.     Card  parties. 

spadille.    The  ace  of  spades. 

pam.    The  knave  of  clubs. 

basto.    The  ace  of  clubs  in  quadrille  and  ombre. 


458 


BIBLIOGRAPHY 

CHIEF  WORKS  OF  GENERAL  REFERENCE 

The  single  volume  most  useful  to  the  student  of  the  whole  period  is 
G.  H.  Nettleton's  English  Drama  of  the  Restoration  and  Eighteenth  Century 
(1642-1780),  1914,  with  its  careful  criticism  and  concise  bibliography.  The 
third  volume  of  A.  W.  Ward's  History  of  English  Dramatic  Literature  to  the 
death  of  Queen  Anne,  1899,  particularly  chapter  IX,  will  assist  the  study  of 
the  earlier  part  of  the  time.  The  Cambridge  History  of  English  Literature, 
vol.  VIII  (1912),  chapters  V,  VI,  VII,  vol.  IX  (1913),  chapter  II,  and 
vol.  X  (1914),  chapters  II,  IV,  and  IX,  discusses  nearly  all  our  authors. 
The  stage  history  of  the  epoch  receives  elaborate  treatment  in  Genest's 
monumental  work  in  ten  volumes,  Some  Account  of  the  English  Stage  from 
the  Restoration  in  1660  to  1830,  1832.  Other  works  of  general  value  are 
Ashley  H.  Thorndike's  Tragedy,  1908,  chapters  VIII  and  IX,  and  John 
Palmer's  The  Comedy  of  Manners  (1664-1720),  1913.  Every  reader  of 
Restoration  Comedy  should  know  Leigh  Hunt's  Dramatic  Works  of  Wycher- 
ley,  Congreve,  Vanbrugh  and  Farquhar  (1849),  a  complete  edition  of  the 
plays,  containing  memoirs  of  the  dramatists  and  the  famous  essays  of  Lamb 
and  Hazlitt,  and  should  read  Macaulay's  equally  famous  review  of  this  edition. 

DRYDEN 

The  standard  edition  of  the  plays  is  the  Scott-Saintsbury,  in  eight 
volumes,  1882.  Saintsbury  has  a  selection  of  plays  in  the  Mermaid  Series  in 
two  volumes  containing  among  others  "  The  Conquest  of  Granada "  and 
"  All  for  Love."  Professor  George  R.  Noyes  has  edited  with  notes  Selected 
Dramas  of  John  Dryden  with  The  Rehearsal,  1910,  which  includes  both 
our  plays.  The  most  important  treatises  on  the  heroic  play  are  Holzhausen's 
"  Dryden's  Heroisches  Drama  "  in  Englische  Studien,  vols.  XIII,  XV,  XVI, 
1889-1892;  L.  N.  Chase's  The  English  Heroic  Play,  1903;  C.  G.  Child's 
"  The  Rise  of  the  Heroic  Play "  in  Modern  Language  Notes,  1904 ;  J.  W. 
Tupper's  "  The  Relation  of  the  Heroic  Play  to  the  Romances  of  Beaumont  .  / 
and  Fletcher  "  in  the  Publications  of  the  M.  L.  A.  of  America,  1905 ;  Herbert — 
W.  Hill's  "  La  Calprenede's  Romances  and  the  Restoration  Drama," T/w- 
versiiy  of  Nevada  Studies,  vol.  II,  no.  3,  1910.  "All  for  Love"  has  been 
included  by  Furness  in  his  Variorum  edition  of  Shakspere's  "  Antony  and 
Cleopatra,"  1907,  pp.  409-472,  and  has  been  edited  (with  "  The  Spanish 
Friar")  by  William  Strunk,  Jr.,  in  the  Belles  Lettres  Series,  1911,  with 
notes  and  bibliography.  Valuable  comment  upon  this  play  is  found  in 

459 


BIBLIOGRAPHY 


Margaret  Sherwood's  Dry  den's  Dramatic  Theory  and  Practice   (Yale  Uni- 
versity Dissertation,  1898),  pp.  85-93. 

OTWAY 

The  chief  plays  of  Otway  have  been  edited  by  Roden  Noel  in  the 
Mermaid  Series,  1888.  Annotated  editions  of  "  Venice  Preserved  "  are  those 
of  Gollancz  in  the  Temple  Dramatists,  1898,  and  of  McClumpha  (with  "The 
Orphan")  in  the  Belles  Lettres  Series,  1908,  containing  a  full  bibliography. 
The  student  should  read  the  delightful  sketch  of  Otway  by  Edmund  Gosse 
in  his  Seventeenth-Century  Studies,  1883,  and  the  suggestive  comments  of 
Hazlitt,  Lectures  on  the  Dramatic  Literature  of  the  Age  of  Elizabeth,  and  of 
Taine,  English  Literature,  Book  III,  chapter  II. 

CONGREVE 

The  modern  editions  of  Congreve's  plays  are  A.  C.  Ewald's  in  the 
Mermaid  Series,  1887,  G.  S.  Street's  Comedies  of  William  Congreve,  1895, 
and  William  Archer's  selections  in  Masterpieces  of  the  English  Drama,  1912. 
A  convenient  Life  is  Edmund  Gosse's  in  the  Great  Writers  Series,  1888.  A 
critical  monograph  is  D.  Schmid's  "  William  Congreve,  sein  Leben  und  seine 
Lustspiele  "  in  Wiener  Beitr'dge  zur  englischen  Philologie,  1897.  Meredith's 
Essay  on  Comedy,  1897,  has  some  brilliant  remarks  on  Congreve's  comedy. 

FARQUHAR 

All  of  Farquhar's  plays  are  included  in  A.  C.  Ewald's  Dramatic  Works 
of  George  Farquhar,  1892.  The  chief  plays  have  been  edited  by  William 
Archer  in  the  Mermaid  Series,  1906,  with  an  excellent  introduction.  An 
annotated  edition  of  "  The  Beaux'  Stratagem  "  by  H.  M.  Fitzgibbon  is  found 
in  the  Temple  Dramatists  Series,  1898;  and  of  "The  Beaux'  Stratagem" 
(with  "A  Discourse  upon  Comedy"  and  "  The  Recruiting  Officer")  by  Louis 
A.  Strauss  in  the  Belles  Lettres  Series,  1914.  D.  Schmid's  "  George  Farquhar, 
sein  Leben  und  seine  Original-Dramen  "  in  Wiener  Beitr'dge  sur  englischen 
Philologie,  1904,  is  an  elaborate  study.  Miss  Guiney  has  a  pleasant  essay  upon 
Farquhar  in  Poet-Lore,  VI,  1894,  406-413. 

ADDISON 

"  Cato "  appears  in  the  first  volume  of  Kurd's  edition  of  Addison's 
Works,  1811,  and  is  readily  accessible  for  a  dime  in  Maynard's  English 
Classics  Series.  Johnson's  Life  of  Addison  contains  much  famous  criticism  of 
the  play;  and  the  sixth  chapter  in  Courthope's  Life  (English  Men  of  Letters 
Series),  1884,  is  a  valuable  sketch.  Good  accounts  of  the  presentation  of 
"  Cato "  are  those  of  D.  Cook,  Once  a  Week,  V,  72  f.  and  J.  F.  Molloy, 
Famous  Plays,  1886,  pp.  39-70. 

STEELE 

The  best  modern  edition  of  Steele's  plays  is  G.  A.  Aitken's  in  the 
Mermaid  Series.  Aitken  has  also  a  Life  in  two  volumes,  1889.  Austin 

460 


BIBLIOGRAPHY 


Dobson  has  a  much  shorter  Life  in  the  English  Writers  Series,  1888.  Steele's 
share  in  the  sentimental  comedy  is  dealt  with  in  Osborn  Waterhouse's 
"  The  Development  of  English  Sentimental  Comedy  in  the  Eighteenth 
Century"  in  Anglia,  vol.  XXX,  137-172,  269-305  (1907);  and  in  D.  C. 
Croisant's  "  Studies  in  the  Work  of  Colley  Gibber  "  in  Humanistic  Studies, 
vol.  I,  no.  i,  Bulletin  of  the  University  of  Kansas,  1912. 

GAY 

Two  excellent  modern  editions  of  "  The  Beggar's  Opera "  are  the  re- 
prints by  G.  Hamilton  Macleod  in  The  King's  Library,  1905,  and  by  Gregor 
Sarrazin,  John  Gay's  Singspiele  in  Englische  Textbibliothek,  1898.  Entertain- 
ingly discursive  is  Charles  E.  Pearce's  "  Polly  Peachum,"  being  the  story  of 
Lavinia  Fenton  (Duchess  of  Bolton)  and  "  The  Beggar's  Opera"  1913. 
Molloy's  Famous  Plays,  1886,  pp.  73-100,  discusses  particularly  the  presentation 
of  the  play.  See  also  the  sketch  of  Gay  by  Austin  Dobson  in  The  Dictionary 
of  National  Biography  and  John  Underbill's  introductory  memoir  to  his 
edition  of  Gay's  Poetical  Works,  1893. 

\*W  ' 

FIELDING 

Besides  the  editions  of  Fielding's  complete  works  by  Leslie  Stephen 
in  ten  volumes,  1882,  by  George  Saintsbury  in  twelve  volumes,  1893,  by 
Edmund  Gosse  in  twelve  volumes,  and  by  W.  E.  Henley  in  tw$l^e 
volumes,  1902,  there  is  a  critical  edition  of  "  Tom  Thumb "  by  Felix 
Lindner  in  Englische  Textbibliothek,  1899.  The  best  Lives  are  Austin  Dob- 
son's  Memoir,  1900,  and  G.  M.  Godden's  Memoir,  1910. 

GOLDSMITH 

Among  modern  editions  of  Goldsmith's  two  plays  are  those  of  Austin 
Dobson  in  the  Belles  Lettres  Series,  1903,  with  introduction,  notes  and  bibliog- 
raphy, and  of  T.  H.  Dickinson  in  the  Riverside  Literature  Series,  1908, 
with  introduction  and  notes.  Other  annotated  editions  of  "  She  Stoops  to 
Conquer  "  are  by  J.  M.  Dent  in  the  Temple  Dramatists,  1900,  and  by  G.  A.  F. 
M.  Chatwin,  1912.  Forster's  The  Life  and  Times  of  Oliver  Goldsmith,  1848, 
and  all  succeeding  biographies  contain  more  or  less  complete  accounts  of 
the  author's  dramatic  work.  Molloy  discusses  "  She  Stoops  to  Conquer " 
in  his  Famous  Plays,  pp.  129-174. 

SHERIDAN 

There  are  numerous  editions  of   Sheridan's  plays,  of  which  the  most 

important  are  Brander  Matthews's  Sheridan's  Comedies,  The  Rivals  and  The 

I  School  for  Scandal,   1885,  W.   Fraser  Rae's  Sheridan's   Plays,   1902,   G.  H. 

I  Nettleton's  The  Major  Dramas  of  Sheridan,  1906,  and  J.  Q.  Adams,  Jr.'s 

\The  Rivals,  1910.     The  latest  Life  is  W.   Sichcl's  Sheridan,  from  new  and 

original  material,  1909.    Both  "  The  Rivals  "  and  "  The  School  for  Scandal  " 

are  discussed  in  Molloy's  Famous  Plays,  pp.  177-218. 

461 


Oxford  Editions  of  the  Dramatists 

The    Works    of    Thomas    Kyd.       Edited,  with  facsimile  letters 
and  title-pages,  by  F.  S.  BOAS.    8vo.     $5.00. 

The    Works   of  John    Lyly.      Edited  by  R.  W.  BOND.     In  three 
volumes  8vo,  with  collotype  and  facsimile  title-pages.     $12.75. 

The  Plays  and  Poems  of  Robert  Greene.     Edited,  with 

facsimile  title-pages,  etc.,  by  J.  CHURTON  COLLINS.   2vols.   8vo.   $5.75. 


The  Mediaeval  Stage,  from  classical  times  through  folk-play  and 
minstrelsy  to  Elizabethan  drama.  By  E.  K.  CHAMBERS.  8vo.  $7.75- 

York    Plays.      Edited  by  L.  TOULMIN  SMITH.    8vo.     $6.75. 

The  Pilgrimage  to  Parnassus,  etc.  :  comedies  performed  in  St. 
John's  College,  Cambridge,  A.D.  1597-1601.  Ed.  W.  D.  MACRAY. 
Med.  8vo.  $2.25. 

Miracle  Plays,  Moralities  and  Interludes,  being  specimens 

of  the  pre-Elizabethan  drama.      Edited  by  A.  W.  POLLARD.     Ed.  5. 
Cr.  8vo.     $1.90. 

Karly  Knglish  Tragedies.  Edited,  with  introduction  and  notes,  by 
J.  W.  CUNLIFFE.  Cr.  8vo.  $2.50. 

Plays  from  the  Italian:  Supposes,  The  Buggbears,  Misogonus. 
Edited  by  R.  W.  BOND.  Cr.  8vo.  $2.50. 

Ancient  Classical  Drama.   By  R.  G.  MOULTON.    Cr.  8vo.    $2.25. 
Shakespeare  as  a   Dramatic  Artist.     By  R.  G.  MOULTON. 

Third  edition.     Cr.  8vo.     $1.00. 


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